The Parts of the Sum
by Shane C
Summary: Another fanfic prompt challenge; snippets from the series we didn't necessarily get to see in canon. Full description inside - as always, enjoy! And also as always, all thoughts in the form of reviews are welcomed, encouraged, and appreciated!
1. Storm

**Author's Note: **Well, despite having a lot of unfinished work here on the site, I've decided to start yet another project: another fanfic prompt challenge. The lack of interconnected events make this sort of piece perfect for me – I get to practice my writing without getting too involved with plot twists and continuity. This one is going to be a bit different than "Photographs in the Wind" – I'm not putting a word cap on any of these entries. Some could be fifty words and some could be five thousand. Also, I'm not going to focus exclusively on the Animorphs' POVs; I'm going to also write from secondary characters' POVs (for example, the parents, teachers, siblings, etc.) The main purpose for this piece's existence is to provide an obscure look at the events and development of the series while (hopefully) closely adhering to the canon content. I hope you enjoy this, and as always I'll be excited to hear your thoughts. Have fun!

**The Parts of the Sum **

_**#1 – Storm**_

Jean looked at her youngest son with her sternest expression. She could read his body language like a book, and she could tell he was on the verge of arguing with her. She'd been letting him get away with it far too often, and she resolved not to give in to his typical teenage rebellious nature this time.

"I'm not kidding, Jake; I need this done, and I need it done now." She pointed through the westward-facing kitchen window to the gathering storm clouds in the distance. "Even if the hurricane doesn't hit us directly, we're bound to get a lot of bad weather out of it. I have to go out to pick up emergency supplies before the stores run out of batteries and bottled water, and I'd like this to be finished before I get home."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she saw the resignation in his eyes as he closed it and looked down at his dirty sneakers. "Okay, mom. But can I at least tell Tom he has to help me out?"

Irritation flashed through Jean, but it wasn't for Jake. If Jake was rebellious, Tom was flat-out disrespectful. She and Steve were at a loss for how to deal with him; every time they tried to involve themselves in his life, it seemed to drive the oldest son further away from them. "I'll tell you what," she said, trying not to let the irritation seep into her voice, "If you see him, you can assign him whatever job you want. And you can tell him they're orders straight from me." She didn't add that she was sure he _wouldn't _see Tom; it had been weeks since he'd been home for anything other than to eat and to sleep.

Talking about Tom seemed to soften Jake up, somehow, as it had tended to do over the last few months. "Yeah, okay. Don't worry about it. I'll get those windows taped up and boarded, and if I can swing it before it gets dark, I'll haul the generator out of the shed into the garage. Do we have gas for it?"

The irritation bled out of Jean and she couldn't keep a slight smile off of her face. '_They're just teenagers,_' she reminded herself. '_That doesn't mean they won't turn out to be good men._' And she was sure that they would – turn out to be good men, that was. "I'll tell your father to fill the cans when he gets home. Thank you, Jake."

Jake smiled back, tentatively at first. Jean didn't like the way his eyes had dark circles underneath them or the natural slouch of his shoulders as he sat at the kitchen table, but she had already begun to train herself to ignore them. He was a good boy.

"No problem, mom." As Jean picked up her car keys and made for the back door, Jake said, "Hey, mom?" She turned around. "I just…I'm sorry if I've been giving you a hard time, lately. I don't mean to. I'm just…you know, I've just been busy, what with starting high school this year and all."

On impulse, Jean crossed the kitchen and hugged her boy, who was already physically larger than she was. She kissed the top of his head, subconsciously smelling it for pot smoke or alcohol-tinged sweat; she didn't know she was doing it, it was just a motherly, subconscious habit, and her nose detected none of it. "It's okay, honey. I understand. I keep trying to tell you – I was a teenager once, too." She let him out of the hug, but held him at arms' length by his shoulders.

He grinned at her, and she relaxed at the genuineness of the expression. A kid who could smile like that wasn't on drugs or in a gang. No way. "Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, right?"

She laughed and slapped his shoulder playfully, and she once again turned for the door. "Thanks again, Jake." She resolved to buy him a king size Reese's while she was out, because she knew it was his favorite.

A gesture of peace in the midst of a gathering storm could never be a bad thing.


	2. Club

_#2 – Club_

Tobias

I've never belonged to anything.

When I was still human, I used to toy with the idea of joining a club all the time. The problem was that I wasn't good at anything. Chess Club? No thanks; I liked chess okay, but I got my ass kicked at school often enough without it. Drama Club? Sometimes just looking in the mirror was hard for me. The idea of pretending to be someone else was nothing new, but there was no way I'd be able to pull it off in front of people.

It seemed to me that for every reason I had to join a club, there were a hundred not to. How would I pay the fees and the dues? My uncle didn't even give me lunch money. What if I joined and the other kids didn't like me? All I would be doing then was extending my daily torture for an hour after school.

"Tobias?" Jake asked, shaking me out of my reverie. "Would you mind?"

(Mind what?) I asked, embarrassed that I hadn't been paying attention to him in the first place.

He didn't get mad or roll his eyes. He didn't ask me what my problem was. He just gave me a knowing smile that said, '_Been there, buddy. Don't worry._'

"Following Chapman after school tomorrow. I'd do it, but I can't risk him figuring out that I'm paying attention to him. We have to know where he's going before he goes home – it could lead us to a new Yeerk Pool entrance."

(No problem,) I told him, and I meant it. I was trapped in a hawk's body; I had no home; I had to kill to eat; I had intergalactic bodysnatchers who would do unspeakable things to me to worry about. But, in a way, I was luckier than all of my human friends. Their whole lives were Drama Club, now. They were actors for 99% of every day, and they couldn't ever completely relax, even in their own homes. Anything I could do to make their lives easier, I would.

Even if they didn't have a choice about it, they'd taken me in and made me a part of their team. I shared a bond with them that I'd been looking for my entire life. I loved them all in different ways – even Marco. Marco cracked jokes and busted on me, sure, but it was in his eyes; a concern for me that hadn't been there before.

In the end, I didn't have to join any club. My club came to me.


	3. Years

_#3 – Years_

Rachel

The others – Marco, Jake, Cassie, even Tobias – think of me as this brave-to-the-point-of-insane warrior. Sometimes I feel like I am. I mean, _usually _I feel like that. That's what Earth needs, so that's what I am. I like to think it's just because I take pride in being the best at my job, you know? If I were a baker, I'd be intense about baking the best damn cakes in the world. That's just how I am.

Sometimes, it's shoved in my face that I'm not Joan of Arc. Sometimes, the world shows me that I'm just some scared little girl who's in way over her head. When that happens, though, I don't have the luxury of breaking down. I can't cry to Tobias or put my head on Cassie's shoulder. They need me to be that crazy, gung-ho fighter.

A lot has happened lately. I had a chance to bail. My dad offered – insisted, almost – that I move away with him. To another city, in another state. Nobody could have blamed me if I'd taken him up on it…and so what if they did? I'd be a thousand miles away from anybody who would judge me. I'm proud of myself every day for doing the right thing, even though it was hard – staying in the fight.

The other day, Marco had died getting the Pemalite crystal for Erek. Not been hurt, not injured…_dead. _Erek had revived him, but Erek wouldn't always be around. It really brought home the fact that none of us are immortal. And when you realize your own mortality, it's like a worm inside of you that tries to eat up all of your bravery.

So after lying awake for two hours after turning out my light for the night, I decided to get some answers.

Ax lives in the woods by Cassie's farm. It's about a half hour away, as the owl flies. I went there to talk to him, because I couldn't sleep and I know Andalites hardly ever do.

I saw him track my approach with one stalk eye as I flew toward his scoop. (Hey, Ax, it's me. Rachel,) I told him as I perched on the end of a bookshelf he'd gotten from somewhere. The shelf was full of everything from _Reader's Digest _to quantum physics textbooks.

(Hello, Rachel. Nighttime visits are highly irregular; is anything wrong?)

I didn't answer right away; I used the time it took to demorph to think about what I wanted to say. Now that I was actually here, I felt kind of silly. Ax was stranded on an alien planet. He was all alone in an alien forest. I didn't really have the right to dump my problems on him. I was already here, though.

"Yeah, everything is cool," I lied. "I just had a couple of questions." I leafed through an issue of _Car and Driver_ casually, like what I had to say wasn't very important. Ax didn't seem fooled. The lids around his stalk eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, it was with a guarded tone.

(I have agreed to tell you everything I could,) he said, but I could tell he was hedging a little. My little unannounced visit was freaking him out, so I decided to go for broke. To just come out with it and ask him what I came here for.

"We're holding our own, right?" I wondered, but it was really more to myself than to Ax. "I mean, that's all we can do, right? Hold out until your people get here?"

(Yes. As I understand it, that is our primary objective – to cause enough trouble to slow down the Yeerks' progress until the fleet gets here.)

"So they _are _coming?" I asked. I tossed the magazine down and made unwavering eye contact – I wanted to see honesty when he answered. It was the only thing that would make me feel better. "I mean, I know you told them what was up when you called home. They know we need them. Are you _sure_ they're going to come and help us?"

Andalites are not humans. Their facial expressions don't mean the same things. But I feel like he was being straight with me when he said, (Yes, they will come. We unleashed the Yeerks on the galaxy. It is our fault that your people are suffering, and my people will not stand for it. They will come, Rachel.)

That was good enough for me, but another question nagged me. I didn't think Ax would have the answer, but I wouldn't be satisfied if I left without asking it, either. "When?"

(I do not understand the question.)

"I mean, when are they going to come? Will they put us as their first priority? Are they on the way right now? And if so, how long will it take them to get here?"

Ax tapped his left rear hoof lightly against the ground, a gesture I took to mean the same thing as a human shrug. (I have no way of knowing, Rachel. If you forced me to guess, I would say yes, they will put Earth as their highest priority. But that presumes several things, things I have no way of knowing. There are too many variables to postulate an accurate -)

"What if it takes them _years?_" I asked, and I was embarrassed to hear my voice come out as barely more than a whisper. "What if we're all dead before they come?"

Ax tentatively put a seven-fingered hand on my shoulder. Andalites don't do a whole lot of physical contact with each other, I don't think, and that made it a little more touching for him to do it. It made the comfort he was trying to share a little more real. (Those questions are irrelevant and unworthy of a warrior in wartime,) he said gently. (Our job is the same, no matter what the answers are.) He curved his stalk eyes and narrowed his main eyes into the expression we were coming to see as a smile. (In a way, it's what makes being a warrior attractive – at least to me. I've never been a great philosopher, and the good thing about being a soldier is that philosophy is not really expected of you. Our job is to fight. Other events will either take care of themselves or they won't. But even if we knew my people would never come…we would still fight, would we not?)

I smiled back as I let the truth of his words sink in. He was right; of _course _he was right. "Yeah. We would still fight." I patted his hand, and he let it drop from my shoulder. "So what you're saying is that the only thing expected of me is to keep doing exactly what I'm doing, and let fate sort out the rest of it?"

He smiled again as I began to morph. (Yes. Eloquently put, Rachel.)

My mouth was gone, but I had progressed into the morph far enough to use thought speech again. (You know what, Ax? I like you.)

He went back to tinkering with the alarm clock he was taking apart. (I like you, too, Rachel. You are very…Andalite…at times. You make me feel less homesick.)

He probably didn't mean for those words to affect me as deeply as they did. I had never really stopped to think about how alone he must be, and how much bravery it took for him to fight with us. We human Animorphs had no choice. Ax did, and he chose to fight with us instead of hiding out, waiting for his people to rescue him.

(Thanks, Ax.)

(Thank you, Rachel.)


	4. Forever

_#4 – Forever_

My name is Jordan, and I have a secret.

My sister is crazy.

I've thought about telling my mom hundreds of times. I've thought about telling my dad _thousands _of times. But every time it's on the tip of my tongue, something stops me. Something tells me that telling would only make things worse.

But, when she's thrashing around in her bed, gasping and muttering about blood and hate and fear, I feel like I should do something. She has nightmares every single night – well, every night she's home, anyway. Sometimes she sneaks out, which I guess is normal when you're a teenager. But nightmares every night? _That's _not normal.

Rachel has always been moody, for as far back as I can remember. But now she's jumpy, too, and that's all wrong. See, my sister Rachel isn't scared of _anything_. She never has been. So that's how I know she's going crazy – I looked it up. Rachel is showing signs of paranoid schizophrenia.

Once I knew the symptoms, I started watching her very closely. I don't know if she has hallucinations – she doesn't talk to people who aren't there or anything – but more and more often, she just goes off in her own head. She'll stare at the TV like she's watching it, but when I ask her if she wants popcorn or a blanket, it's like I didn't even say anything.

Blunted emotion? Yeah, she's got that one, all right. Things I do that used to set her off, like playing with her toys or riding her bike instead of mine, get no reaction out of her anymore. She knows I'm doing them…believe me, she knows. When she sees me on her bike, that old spark comes into her eyes, and I think – _hope _ - that this time, she's going to take it away from me. Tell me I've got a perfectly good bike of my own, so stop scratching hers up. But then she lets it go and her face takes on that blank look again.

Another symptom is not wanting to form relationships with new people. Well, Rachel has been hanging out with the same girl for years. Cassie. Cassie wouldn't notice Rachel going crazy if it hit her in the face; all she cares about are her animals. Every now and then, Rachel will talk to cousin Jake, but I think that's just so it seems like she has more friends than she does. She was never really close with Jake. Sometimes I listen in on their phone calls, and they never make much sense. It's almost like they're speaking in code or something…but if Rachel is crazy, then I don't see why Jake couldn't be, too. Same old family, same old crazy, har-har.

Lack of motivation. That's a big one. Nobody notices what I do because nobody competes with Rachel like I do. That's another secret I have; I've always wanted to accomplish a little more than Rachel. At first, it was about being noticed. Not a big, "Look at me!", but some quiet acknowledgement that maybe Rachel wasn't better than me simply because she was older, maybe. Rachel still gets good grades, she's still got all A's…but my grades have stayed perfect while hers slipped. They haven't slipped a lot, but they have. This year she's making A-minuses instead of A-plusses. I have the feeling next year they'll be B's. And it's such a slow progression, I'm the only one who sees it.

I've tried to deal with this on my own. I've asked her what's wrong several times, but she always laughs it off and says nothing. Typical Rachel. Whatever else has changed, her cocky attitude is not one of those things. And I guess that's why I won't tell on her. She's still the same person. She's still the same older sister I've always looked up to and at times been a little afraid of.

So I've decided to keep my mouth shut. If she gets to the point where she can't function anymore, if she has to be medicated, if they have to lock her up…well, those things happen if they happen. But I won't be the one to put her in that position. She won't be able to think back and say, "If only Jordan had kept her mouth shut, I wouldn't have to take these twelve pills every day and see the therapist three times a week." I love my sister, and even though I'm scared for her, I'll keep her secret to myself.

Forever, if I have to.


	5. Black

_#5 – Black_

Peter glanced at the living room's wall clock – 1:40 PM. He thought hard for a moment, trying to remember what time Marco would be home from school, and couldn't quite grasp the answer to the question. All he could be sure of was it would be after three but before five. Something inside of him told him he should be ashamed of himself for not knowing, but he swallowed another swig of Old Times bourbon straight from the bottle anyway.

"Doesn't matter," he said out loud. "Kid's better off when I'm unconscious anyway." In the interest of making that happen before Marco got home, he took another, longer drink from the bottle. He coughed as the cheap alcohol burned his throat and tried to pay attention to the TV.

As always, though, his mind started to wander. It always did, but it was worse when he was drinking. And he was usually drinking. He randomly thought of Picasso, Eva's favorite painter. He remembered the time he'd bought her the expensive re-print in the nice, gilded frame, and he even smiled a little as he remembered what she'd said about it.

"_Oh, Peter. Thank you."_

"_You like it? Really?"_

"_Well, of course I do!"_

"_You don't _look_ like you like it…I thought Picasso was your favorite?"_

"_He is. I do. It's just…"_

"_Just what?"_

"_Well, this is one of his Blue Period works."_

"_So? The guy at the gallery told me his Blue Period stuff was the most popular."_

"_It is, although I never understood why. I look at it, and all I see is depression. He started painting like this because he was depressed, you know. His friend killed himself, and this is how he expressed his feelings about it."_

"_People love misery, I guess."_

"_Yes, they do. Most people."_

"…_so, you want me to take it back? You can pick out one you like better."_

"_No! It's a gift, and you know I never return gifts. It's like telling someone that my taste is better than theirs."_

"_Your taste _is_ better than mine. If you haven't figured that out by now, then you need your eyes checked, sweetheart."_

"_Hang it. Put it in the hall, beside the Rockwell print. And thank you – it was incredibly sweet."_

The smile faded from Peter's face as the memory faded. The Picasso he'd bought her had long since been thrown into the trash, the frame pawned to help with the rent.

He took another long swallow of bourbon, and a moment of clarity shrouded him. He saw how dingy and stained the living room carpet was, and he could suddenly smell the mold and the dirty dishes he'd conditioned himself to ignore. He saw the filthy slippers on his feet and the dirty robe wrapped around his skinny, pale body. Tears threatened to well up, but he forced them away with another drink.

"Just call it my Black Period," he said to the empty apartment, and turned his attention back to the TV.


	6. Rain

_#6 – Rain_

Jake

I tapped the pencil against my notebook, no longer even trying to concentrate on the quiz in front of me. I'd answered the easy, common sense questions already. All the blank ones were reserved for answers I didn't know, answers I would have had to actually learn to know.

_Tap tap tap tap. _I matched the beat of the pencil to the rain pattering against the double-paned classroom window. _Tap tap tap. _I felt like a lit stick of dynamite – ready to blow up at any time. I _hate _rainy days. They always make my mood turn dark and stormy, just like the sky. It feels like the opposite, though; it feels like my dark moods always bring on the rain. In my town, which gets three hundred sunny days a year, it was just my luck to get two crappy days in a row.

This quiz was for 10% of my final grade. I'd known that, and I'd had every intention in the world of studying my butt off for it. I couldn't afford any more barely-passing grades. Just as I'd sat down to study the night before, Tobias had come by with something we had to deal with. It involved a crashed Bug fighter and a scenario Ax calls a Sario Rip – but that's a story for another day. The point is, I never got the chance to study, and I was about to fail this quiz because of it.

_Tap tap tap. _I was replaying the events of the previous night over and over in my mind – events that, thanks to a tear in the time-space continuum, had never actually happened. I was so lost in thought that I actually jumped when a balled-up piece of paper lightly hit the back of my head.

I spun around fast enough to make the desk squeak; this kid named Ryan was glaring at me. "You mind?" he hissed, and gestured to where I'd been tapping with my pencil. "Some of us are trying to pass this class, dumbass."

I lost it. I'm well aware that I overreacted, but I couldn't help it. I didn't bother whispering as I said, "Talk to me like that again and you won't be able to talk at all."

Thirty heads turned to stare at my seemingly-unprovoked outburst. My teacher, Mr. Henry, said, "Jake?" in a confused voice. I've never been the type to disrupt class.

Several things happened at once. Ryan took the threat as a challenge and stood out of his desk, squaring off with me. He was ready to throw down. I stood, too, out of reflex. It was about two seconds away from coming to blows when Marco saved the day by confusing the situation even further.

"What? No! Brittney, we're in _class!_" he yelled indignantly at the poor girl who was sitting next to him and wearing a shocked expression. "I can't take my pants off here!"

The whole class, previously enraptured by the prospect of a fistfight, burst out laughing. Even Ryan stared at Marco for a minute before chuckling. Mr. Henry had had enough.

"I don't know what's going on and I don't care! There is a _test _on your desks!" His face was red. "Jake, Ryan, Marco! Chapman's office, now!"

We all claimed to Chapman that the ruckus had been caused by the pure stress of the test. Even Ryan played along, sensing his chance to minimize the damage. All three of us were given detention, but that was a small price to pay – we were also getting the chance to take the quiz I would have surely failed in that detention. It gave me an extra four hours to study, and because of that, I kept my grade in the passing realm.

Marco never even mentioned the incident, just took his detention with good grace. I was the one who eventually brought it up, after detention let out and we were walking home.

"Thanks for saving my butt, man. I don't know what got into me."

"I might have an idea," he said dryly.

I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassed at losing my cool like that. "Anyway, you're a heck of a guy. Taking detention just to help me out."

He just gave me a grin and dropped a typical Marco-ism. "A good friend will bail you out of jail. A _best_ friend will be in the cell with you saying, "Damn, that was crazy!""

I could only laugh.


	7. Friends

_#7 – Friends_

The museum curator flitted around his office, nervously straightening the pictures on the wall and dusting the chairs for the tenth time. Everything had to be perfect – it wasn't every day one of the subjects of his most popular exhibit stopped by. And she'd said she had a donation for the museum, no less.

Herman Orville decided the office was as tidy as he could make it. He sat behind his slightly-pompous desk and checked the holographic time display on the corner of it – 2:58. Cassie had said she would arrive at three, and as a member of the President's cabinet, she was notoriously punctual.

Less than a minute later, there was a soft knock at the heavy oaken door to the office. "Come in!" he squealed. He did not mean to, but his excitement had destroyed his usual air of confident civility. The door swung open and a woman with a slight smile entered, her hand already extended for the coming handshake. "Good afternoon, Mr. Orville. I'm Cassie Albert; we met once before."

He shook her hand enthusiastically. "Of course, of course, my dear! I know who you are, and I remember our meeting well; you're quite famous, you know."

Her smile became a bit more genuine as she took a seat in the chair Orville indicated. "Yes, you and your museum have a lot to do with that notoriety," she chuckled.

"I'm very glad for the visit," he told her truthfully. "Your assistant did not say what this meeting was concerning, however; he mentioned you would be bringing a donation for our exhibit?" He tried not to sound overly excited at the prospect, and failed completely.

"Yes, sir. Well, I'll be brief." She probably meant the statement to be accommodating and polite, but Orville felt a sense of disappointment. "I've experienced your exhibit on the Resistance, and in large part it's dedicated to the Animorphs."

"Of course it is! Without you, there would have _been _no Resistance. There would _be _no museum." He realized for the first time that the visit might not be a good thing, and his confidence faltered. "You do feel we've told your story in the proper way, don't you? You're not displeased with the exhibit in any way?"

She smiled again, and Orville allowed himself to relax a bit. "No sir, I was struck with how well you presented the picture. I found the display to be informative and accurate…but lacking in one small detail. That's what I've brought you; something that will help to complete the puzzle."

"And what piece are we missing, my dear?"

"Your exhibit portrays us to be warriors – and we were. It very candidly expresses our struggle to remain anonymous to the Yeerks and normal to the people in our lives. But it lacks one small detail. One that, over the years, has come to seem – to me, at least – like the most important part of our lives, back then."

She reached into her bag and removed a 4x6 photograph, stared at it nostalgically for a moment, and then slid it across Orville's desk to him. "You see, we were fighters and we were a team. We were insurgents – counterinsurgents, really. We were spies and saboteurs. But, Mr. Orville…we were also _friends_."

He looked at the photograph, transfixed. It showed all six of the Animorphs. Tobias, who had not been seen since Rachel's memorial service, was present. That was rare – photographs of him were almost nonexistent after his twelfth birthday. Aximili was also present in human morph, which was not quite as rare, but still an exquisite find.

What struck him about the image was their apparent youth. This must have been taken within the first year of their underground resistance – none of them looked to be older than fourteen. Marco still had longer hair, indicative of the earlier time period. In the picture, he was straining to reach high enough to put bunny ears on Jake, who had his arm slung casually around Marco's shoulders. Both of the boys were smiling easily.

Cassie, half the age of the woman sitting in front of him now, was standing beside and slightly behind Jake. She managed to look embarrassed, pleased, and proud all at the same time. Rachel was beside her, giving the Nixon-double-V-for-Victory sign with her fingers. Beside her, Tobias stared awkwardly at the camera, his face surprisingly blank, given that the other Animorphs in the picture seemed to be enjoying themselves. Aximili stood aloof to the side and seemed to be trying to fit what looked like a hairbrush into his ear.

Before he could ask, Cassie spoke softly. "We took that a couple of days after we established the colony of the Free Hork-Bajir. I used a disposable camera; Ax rigged a timing device for it. I never got it developed until after we beat the Yeerks, and even now, I'm not sure why I insisted on it being taken in the first place. I guess I thought that we should leave something behind, to let people know who we had been." Her eyes were far away, and Orville knew she was lost in that magical no-when and nowhere of memory. "It was very important to me that something tangible existed…something to prove we were there, and we were together."

Her eyes unclouded, and she seemed to shake herself back into the present. "Anyway, I thought that it would be a nice addition to your exhibit, Mr. Orville. I want people to know that we were more than just a team. I think they should know that it wasn't hate or fear that kept us together – it was love."

Herman Orville wiped a single tear away from his elderly, lined face, completely moved. He'd seen these five humans and their Andalite comrade as soldiers for so long that he'd forgotten that they had begun as children – and friends. "I'll get to work on the new display immediately," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "This is very important."

Cassie stood, smiling, and shook his hand again. "I was hoping you'd feel that way, Mr. Orville. I look forward to seeing the new exhibit."


	8. Silence

_#8 – Silence_

Steve walked into the house through the garage door, twirling his keys around his finger. "Jean? Jake, Tom!" he called, but he didn't expect an answer. Jean's car was gone and Jake and Tom were rarely home. He dropped the keys on the counter and moved to the phone.

There were a couple of notes in front of the answering machine. The first one was from his wife, and it read:

_Steve,_

_I know you pay attention to me like your life depends on it. However, in case you had a bout of amnesia, I'm in Chicago for the next two days for the publisher's workshop. Feed the boys (and make sure they eat something green!) Remind Jake to feed Homer, make sure their homework is done, and for the love of God, make sure they get up for school on time. I love you – make sure everyone behaves. That includes you, mister. _

_Jean_

Steve smiled and moved on to the second note. It was shorter and written in the sloppy handwriting he knew to be his younger son's.

_Dad,_

_I fed Homer already. I'm going to Marco's. I'll snag a burger on my way home._

_Jake_

"A burger, huh?" Steve said to himself. "Sounds good." He walked through the living room to the foot of the stairs, loosening his tie as he went. When he reached the stairway, he yelled up, "Hey, Tom! Want burgers?" No answer, but he never really expected one. "That kid needs to take a page out of his little brother's book and learn to leave a note," he grumbled.

Well, he had the house to himself. Might as well take advantage, he thought. He grabbed a beer from the back of the refrigerator, wondered briefly how old it was, then shrugged and cracked it open. Tasted okay. He kicked off his shoes and left them in the middle of the living room, plopped on the couch, and started surfing channels.

After he finished his beer, Steve noticed it was getting dark outside. He went through the house, flipping on lights, and realized that he felt strange. He recognized that he was lonely and barked a short, self-deprecating laugh. Just two years ago on an afternoon like this, the house would have been full of noise – Jean on the phone, hounding her publishing agent; Jake roughhousing with Homer; Tom yelling at them to shut up. He laughed at himself as he realized he actually missed the chaos.

He went back into the kitchen to check his stock. He opened the wine cooler, debated on a '96 Chardonnay…then decided against it. What the hell, he thought, and pulled a bottle of Johnny Walker out of the cabinet above the wine cooler. Black Label – the good stuff. Jean would have shot him a disapproving look…but Jean wasn't there. He filled a highball glass with ice and went to carry it and the bottle into the living room when he noticed the answering machine's light flashing.

Setting the tools of self-destruction down, he pressed the button on the machine. "This is Kay McCall, secretary of attendance at the high school. I'm sorry to bother you at home, Mr. and Mrs. Berenson, but I need to speak with you about Jake's attendance over the past two weeks. My records show two unexcused absences, and I wanted to verify with you that they were legitimate. Please call me at 555-7236; thank you for your time."

Steve felt confused for a moment, then brushed the feeling off. He'd talk to Jake about it, but it was a mistake. Had to be – Jake wasn't the sort to ditch class. He picked up the bottle and the glass after putting the portable phone in his pocket and went back into the living room. He poured a generous helping over ice before dialing Peter's number from memory.

"Hello?"

"How are you, Pete? It's Steve."

"Well howdy, stranger. What can I do you for?"

"I need to talk to my no-good son - he around?"

"Hold on." Steve heard him take the phone away from his mouth and call, "Marco! Hey, Marco! Jake?" His voice came back directly onto the receiver. "Sorry, pal, but your no-good son seems to have run off with my no-good son. What's the problem?"

"No problem…Jake just left a note saying he'd be at your place. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah. They're probably just out selling dope."

Steve couldn't help snorting a laugh and almost lost some whiskey through his nostrils. The idea of Jake and Marco selling drugs was pretty funny. "I'm sure that's it."

"Well, I guess I'll get back to the game."

"What game?"

"Cal verses Stanford – you're not watching? It just started."

"Didn't know it was on." He had a sudden burst of inspiration – why be alone just because his family was gone? "You feel like heading over here to watch it?"

A short pause, and then, "Yeah? Depends."

"On what?"

"You got beer in your fridge?"

Steve grinned. "I'm stocked. _And _the wife is out of town."

"I'm on the way. Let me leave the drug dealers a note. I'll tell them to head over, too."

Steve hung up, much happier than he'd been five minutes ago. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched a game with Pete; seemed like he was finally getting over losing Eva. Steve was glad…he knew that had been a tough bit of business for Marco and Peter, but it was good that they seemed to be moving on. He thought there was a good chance the boys would all show up, too.

He sat down on the couch, found the Cal game, and settled in to wait for his guests. Homer came in and jumped on the couch, looking for attention; Steve scratched his ears.

"You're not supposed to be on the furniture," he told the dog, but made no effort to shove him off. "I won't tell, though." Homer got comfortable, as if he'd understood what Steve had said.

He took another sip of his drink and said to himself, "Glad Pete's coming over. Silence is golden…but this is ridiculous."

**A/N: **Hope you're enjoying. If you wouldn't mind, please remember to leave a short review letting me know what you think so far! Thank you =D


	9. Apathy

_#9 – Apathy_

Marco

It was a nightmare scenario if I've ever seen one.

I was sitting in the desk at the front and center of the classroom, the one reserved for teacher's pets and suckups. I was the only one in the room aside from Mrs. Grayson.

She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt – she's one of those teachers who likes to think she's "down" with the students. She thinks she's got her finger on the pulse of the school. She's just as clueless as the rest of them, only she doesn't think she is. She sat on the top of her desk, legs swinging in front of her. She had a hurt expression on her face.

"So I guess you know why I asked you to stay after class," she said, sort of shaking her head sadly. I decided to play dumb and shook my head like I didn't have any idea.

Unfortunately, she'd brought her ammunition. She dropped my last five test papers onto the desk, one after the other. F, D-, C, D+, F. "You're smarter than this. Don't you think so?"

Trap question. If I said yes, then it looked like I wasn't trying. If I said no, I'd be sent to the counselor for having self-esteem issues. I sighed and chose the lesser of two evils. "Yes, I know I am," I said in a resigned voice.

"Then what's the deal?" she asked, and she sounded so genuinely concerned that it didn't even sound cheesy. "I don't know where this apathy is coming from. I keep laying off of you, hoping you'll pull it together on your own…but it seems like this is what I can expect out of you now."

I considered playing the "I'm having a hard time because my mom is dead" card, but that was something else that could land me across from the school therapist. "I've been really busy," I said truthfully. "Too busy to study like I should. Can you assign me some work for extra credit? I'll work harder on the tests, I promise."

She hopped off of her desk, picked up the test papers, and went and sat in her chair. She looked at me for a long minute before saying, "Yes, I can assign you extra credit. And I will…if you promise you'll actually do it. I want five pages on the causes of the Great Depression, and I want it to be insightful and original. I do _not _want a repeat of the stunt you pulled in Mr. James' class." Ah, so she'd heard about the Cheap-Term-Papers-Dot-Com Spectacular.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, trying to sound humbled. It just came out as exasperated, and she caught it.

"You'll want to keep in mind that this is me doing you a favor. I could tell you tough luck, let you try – _try _– to pull your grade out of the gutter on your own."

"No, no. I really do appreciate it," and I was actually able to manage to sound a little grateful. She relaxed a little.

"I want it by Friday," she said. Two days? Gee, thanks. I nodded and got up to leave, and she said, "Marco? Make this the last talk I have to have with you about this. No more barely passing test grades. Get this extra credit in, and make it good. Because the next time we have to sit down like this, Mr. Chapman and your father are going to be involved."

As far as threats go, it was a good one. I'd get the paper written – somehow. I turned around and gave her a smile before I left the room, trying not to grit my teeth as I did it. "I sure don't want that. Thank you."

**A/N – **Thank you to everyone who's taking the time to review, notably: MasterShaper, iris129, and jesusisabiscuit. Especially you, Sweetbriar and all the principles of heroism; your reviews are always detailed enough to help me with the next one. It's helpful to hear what you liked (and didn't) about the pieces so I know what to include (and exclude) in the next one. So, thanks again!


	10. Brown

_#10 – Brown_

Naomi watched through the living room bay window as Rachel and Jordan trudged down the front walk to the bus. She'd already driven Sara to her preschool class – Naomi would have ordinarily gone straight to work from that errand, but she had another mission in mind today. She watched until the girls boarded and the bus pulled away from the curb with a loud, squeaky _chuff._ _Now I find out just what the hell is going on with her, _Naomi thought as she flipped open her cell phone.

"Hi, Eric, it's Naomi. Please tell the partners I won't be in for the eight o'clock briefing. I've got something to deal with at home. Yes, the relevant documents are on top of my desk in a manila envelope – send them ahead, and tell them I'm sorry." She hung up the phone and climbed the stairs.

Naomi stood for a moment in front of her oldest daughter's closed bedroom door. She realized she was nervous and a little afraid. Afraid of what she'd find, sure. After all, diligent Naomi would have never dreamed of being late to work unless she was sure there was something _to_ find in Rachel's room. She didn't have the vaguest notion of what it would be, only that she'd know it when she found it. There had to be some evidence to explain her daughter's odd and disturbing behavior, and finding evidence was Naomi's job. And she was damn good at her job.

She laughed nervously as she realized she wasn't only afraid of what she would find – she was afraid of being caught snooping. Ridiculous – it was her job as a mother to snoop. But it didn't change the fact that she didn't want to even think of the scene if Rachel caught her going through her things. There was something dark in her oldest daughter; Naomi didn't know she knew that, but she did. It was one of those ideas that live deep in the brain, just under the consciousness. She didn't _consciously _think that her daughter was capable of things like violence, but she knew it as a fact all the same.

Naomi pushed the door open, halfway surprised that it wasn't locked. She glanced around, noting that it looked very normal. It was mostly tidy, but Rachel had always been a tidy girl. The bed was sloppily made, but it was made. Naomi remembered where she'd hid her own secrets as a teenager – the odd bag of pot or love letters from Dan (who had been something of a rebel in his high school days, a motorcycle rider, and as such had been forbidden to Naomi.) She'd hid them in the lining underneath her mattress, and so it was there she looked first. _Like mother, like daughter, _she thought grimly as she crawled under the bed, feeling along the lining for anything that didn't belong there.

Nothing. She got up, feeling a little silly, and moved to the desk under the window. She searched it thoroughly, even pulling the drawers out and looking for anything illicit taped to the underside of them. Nothing. She was beginning to feel a sense of relief and was already telling herself that she'd been paranoid. Then she remembered the reason for the search in the first place – finding Rachel's bed empty on a Wednesday night last week…the constant glazed, worn-out look in her daughter's eyes…the quickness with which a sarcastic remark came in answer to even the most innocent of questions.

Naomi's eyes wandered to the bulletin board where Rachel kept pictures, notes to herself, and inspirational quotes. She realized the pictures, once changed out regularly, hadn't been replaced in a long time. There was a note that said "History project due 11/17." Naomi started at that – today was January 14th. Had it really been two months since Rachel had thought an upcoming assignment important enough to place on her reminder board? But the quotes were what turned her blood a little cold.

"War does not determine who is right – only who is left." – Bertrand Russell

"It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets." – Voltaire

"The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy." – Friedrich Nietzsche

And the last one, the one which for no perceptible reason seemed somehow worse than all the rest:

"Only the dead have seen the end of war." – George Santayana

Naomi tried to think of a reason why Rachel would have chosen these quotes to place by her desk, where she spent most of her time in her room. She could not come up with a single one. _Is my daughter a sociopath?_ She wondered to herself…and was disturbed when she could not come back with an instant and resounding _no._

More frightened than she'd been when she had entered the room, Naomi kept searching. Nothing in the closet. Nothing under the floorboards. Nothing in the air conditioning vents. She was about to give up when she noticed a pile of fabric between the bed and the wall.

It was just a pair of leotard shorts. Nothing overly suspicious about that…not on the surface, anyway. But Naomi's bright, lawyer's mind was ringing its alarm bells. Why would there be spandex on Rachel's floor, especially since she'd quit gymnastics months before? She looked closer, and what she found confused her.

Stuck in the elastic of the waistband was a small clump of course, brown hair. _A boy, _was Naomi's first thought, and was not entirely illogical; after all, her daughter's hair was long, blond, and fine. But as she rolled the hair between her fingers, she realized that no boy would have hair this rough. It was animal hair, no doubt about it. She smelled it, and the suspicion was confirmed – it had a natural, wild scent to it, not entirely unlike a dirty dog's.

Not wanting to but unable to help herself, she sniffed the shorts themselves. Same smell, almost overpowering. _Okay, so she wore this around animals. Cassie has hundreds of animals – no big deal. _But that explanation had one huge hole in it – why the hell was Rachel wearing spandex in Cassie's barn?

The only explanation she could come up with was that Rachel was still practicing gymnastics, only by herself and in secret. Why she would want to hide that fact from her mother was beyond Naomi, but teenagers did strange things. Maybe she thought she wasn't any good and didn't want anyone to know she was still trying, but that didn't fit with Rachel's personality. She'd always said she wasn't any good at the sport, but had been determined to do it anyway. Until she'd up and quit earlier last year, anyway.

_Okay, I've gotten all the information I can from this room. Now what do I do with it? _Naomi's orderly mind asked itself. Confront Rachel about the brown hairs and the spandex? She weighed the benefits and disadvantages of that option. She probably wouldn't get a straight, satisfactory answer out of Rachel…and in return, she'd have to admit that she'd gone through her daughter's things. It would destroy the fragile trust between the two of them. No way, not an option. Not for something as innocuous as a few strange hairs.

Confrontation wasn't an option, not at this point…and there weren't any others. Well, maybe just one – _I'll wait, _Naomi thought. _There's nothing to find this time…but I'll keep monitoring the situation. And when she slips up and leaves a clue as to what she's really up to, I'll be there to find it._

She closed the door, sighed heavily, both relieved and disappointed that she hadn't found better evidence, and went to work.


	11. Red

_#11 – Red_

(I am attempting to understand,) Ax said truthfully. (I have read the book you gave me – _101 Jokes and Riddles. _I understand that humor uses a mixture of wordplay and surprise, in essence. Unexpected answers are funny answers. I understand the concept behind humor – but I fail to see how it can cause humans to laugh and cry. I do not understand a powerful emotional response being triggered by things which are just plain silly.)

"There! You just said it!" Marco exclaimed. "It makes people laugh _because _it's silly. Life is serious, humor is not. Relief from stress. Get it?"

(No, I do not "get it.")

Marco threw up his hands, exasperated. "What's big, stinky, has wheels and flies?"

(A garbage truck. I realize that this joke uses the surprise factor, in that humans automatically think of soaring through the air when they hear the term "flies." It is in fact a reference to the winged insects you humans seem to hate.)

Marco looked at Ax in disbelief. "And you don't see how that's funny?"

(No.)

Marco shook his head and tried another one. "What's black and white and red all over?"

(A joke based on the phonetic similarity of the words "red" and "read." This joke was also in the book – the answer is printable press. Newspapers, I believe they are called.)

Marco grinned. "Nope. It's a zebra in a blender. Get it?"

Ax just stared with his main eyes. (A zebra cannot fit in a blender.)

"That's why it's funny!"

(…I do not see how.)

"You're hopeless. I give up."

**A/N – **I really don't want to be pushy or annoying, but if you would like to read more of these snippets, please leave a brief review. I work faster with a little motivation. Thanks in advance!


	12. Moon

_#12 – Moon_

Ax

I stared up at Earth's single moon and tried not to feel hatred.

That moon was the cause of all of my troubles. It was the reason I was alone, the reason Elfangor was dead, the reason the Yeerks were swiftly infiltrating human culture almost uncontested.

If not for that dead ball of dust, the Yeerks would not have had anywhere to hide their Blade Ship. Never mind the fact that using natural obstructions to hide space forces was the oldest trick in the lexicon; Captain Nerefir should have known. Even when we popped out of Z-space and were immediately swarmed by Bug fighters, he should have known. The Pool Ship had not been an immediate threat, and Bug fighters are little more than a nuisance to a Dome Ship.

Glory, glory, glory. It was all about glory. Nerefir should have dispatched a fighter wing to check the dark side of the moon; it's what _I _would have done. Captain Nerefir was blinded by visions of what destroying an elusive Yeerk Pool Ship would do for his career, and he had grown overconfident in his old age. He cost hundreds of brave Andalite warriors, including my brother, their lives with his foolishness. He had cost my people a valuable resource in the _GalaxyTree._ He had cost the humans their best chance of remaining free.

As I looked up at the glowing ball in the dark Earth sky, I realized it wasn't hatred I felt. It was shame. My people, while normally polite enough not to come out and say it, believe themselves to be superior to other species. I found myself wondering if Prince Jake would have made the same mistake as Old Hoof and Tail Nerefir. The answer was no. Jake would have never, ever let pride bring danger to those under his command. He understands that pride is more of a weakness than a strength. He has pride, and lots of it…but he also understands that pride must be set aside in wartime.

The human child known as Jake could have taught our own great Captain-Prince Nerefir a great many lessons, and that made me feel ashamed. It confused me.

We were waiting for my people to come and save the humans. In my secret heart, I believe that, if both of our peoples survive, it might be the other way around.

Secretly, I believe the humans might just end up saving Andalites.

From ourselves.


	13. Spade

_#13 – Spade_

Jake

In my time fighting the Yeerks, I've had to do a lot of bluffing. I've gotten pretty good at it.

You can say, "Oh, war is nothing like poker. You're stupid to compare the two." I would tell you that you're wrong. Dead wrong. War is _just _like poker. Sometimes you just don't have the cards, but your enemy doesn't know that. Sometimes you can run a bluff, and if you run it just right, you can make your enemy fold the winning hand. The first time they call you and you have to show your bluff, you lose all of your credibility. You'll get called again and again after that, and the bluff basically gets taken out of your arsenal.

I've run a few successful bluffs in my time. I've never been called. I didn't let that make me cocky, though, because I knew the day was coming when I'd get called out.

Several explosions rocked the Pool Ship. Somebody said, "We are without propulsion, Visser."

(I noticed,) the Visser said sarcastically, but it was without any of his usual venom. Visser One knew he'd already been beaten. He'd folded. He was out of the hand. (No engines. And all our brothers in the Pool murdered by these humans.)

"We are being hailed."

(Of course,) the Visser said without surprise or hope. (By all means. We must play it out.)

I saw my brother's face appear on the viewscreen. His expression was the same exact one he used to wear when he'd drop the winning jump shot at the buzzer. Elated. Victorious. "You seem to be experiencing some engine trouble, Visser," he gloated.

(The Empire will track you down and kill you. You do understand that, I hope,) the Visser told him, but it was entirely without conviction. They were just words.

"Oh, I doubt it. I think the Empire will have its hands full," Tom chuckled. "The Andalite fleet is rather close by. It's possible I misled you on that point."

I knew it when he spotted me. His face went pale. His eyes widened in surprise. "You're not dead!" he snapped.

This was it. All the cards were on the table. This was the big hand, where everybody's money was in the middle. The cards on the table formed a scary scenario for all involved. The best hand in poker is the royal flush, in spades. The face up community cards were the parts of that hand – the ten, jack, queen, and king of spades. The only thing missing was the ace. Who had the ace in the hole? Me? Tom? Neither of us?

I could bluff like I had the ace, but the stakes were too high. Tom would not fold. He'd call me and lose his shirt before he did that. In poker and in war, when the stakes are high enough, bluffing isn't an option. Sometimes you actually have to have the goods.

It was going to cost me. It was going to cost me big, but I'd rigged this game. Before the hand had been dealt, I'd shoved an ace of spades up my sleeve. All I had to do now was play it, and the hand was mine. The game was over. I would win.

I would lose, but I would also win.

Could I show it? Could I play my ace?

Tom barked orders at his crew. "Bring us around to target the Pool Ship's bridge! Now! Now! Bring us around!"

Showdown time. Time to show 'em if you got 'em.

I flipped my ace of spades onto the table.

(Rachel. Go.)


	14. Pale

_#14 – Pale_

Marco had a bad feeling as he approached his house. The sky was lightening rapidly, but the sun hadn't yet peeked over the horizon. His bad feeling was probably nothing but leftover stress from the mission he'd just finished; it had been a nasty bit of business that had ended in a fight. Even though he had gone through the progression from gorilla to human to osprey in the time since the battle, he felt beat up. It was all mental…but as anyone who's ever been through times of acute stress knows, that mental weariness easily translates to the body. Even if that body happens to be a bird's.

He automatically made for the back of his house, meaning to fly in through his bedroom window. He could almost feel the comfort of his soft pillow and warm sheets. If he was lucky, his dad would sleep in and let him get a few hours of shut eye. That dream died when he got a direct line of sight on his window and saw it closed.

As tired as he was, Marco instantly knew what the closed window meant. His dad had checked on him during the night and found him missing. _It was bound to happen eventually, _Marco told himself wearily, and was grimly amused to find that the knowledge he'd been busted didn't even faze him. He was matter-of-factly glad for the precautions against this inevitability he'd taken.

He swooped in for a landing behind the prefab shed in his backyard and quickly demorphed. When he had his fingers back, he reached under the aluminum building and pulled out the waterproof duffel bag he'd stored there. He quickly dressed in the clothes stashed inside and fished his house key out of the pocket of the jeans. He then walked to the back door and snuck in as quietly as he could.

"Marco?" his dad called from the living room before he could even get the back door closed. Interestingly enough, Marco was glad. _Best to get this out of the way now, so I can go and get some rest._

"Busted," he called back, trying not to sound relieved. The fact that he was alive to be caught sneaking in _was_ a relief. He walked into the living room, mentally preparing himself to act like a kid who'd been out all night. It wasn't hard; he felt asleep on his feet.

Peter didn't yell. He wasn't wearing some shocked, I-can't-believe-this look. He just muted the TV and waited calmly for the explanation.

"Sorry," Marco started. It seemed as good a way to begin as any.

Peter waved the word away like an annoying gnat. "No you're not. If you were, you wouldn't have done it to begin with. What were you doing?"

"Went to a party," Marco sighed. He was wondering how long this was going to take; his eyelids felt ready to crash closed.

"I can see that," Peter said. "You look wrecked to the Nth degree. Was it fun?"

"I guess."

"Just drinking? Or drugs, too?"

"Neither." Marco thought that was the best answer; a kid wouldn't admit to that even if he'd done it, right? And it would be weird if he claimed to have been drinking and Peter didn't smell any booze on him; that would just make him even more suspicious. It would make him wonder what sinister things Marco was _really_ hiding.

Peter looked at him with disbelief. "Lying is only going to make this worse."

Marco was hit with a flash of inspiration. "I wasn't getting trashed, I swear. It was a girl."

He saw Peter's expression blank as he considered the excuse. Hadn't he been a teenager once? Girls were worse than drugs in some ways – they made you do crazy things, too. "So if I hit you with a pee test, you'd pass?" he tested his son.

"I'll take it right now," Marco confirmed. "No drugs. No drinking. Just Allison…and that girl is worse than crack."

Peter tried to hide a smile and couldn't quite do it. "So long as you realize that. And, of course, you're grounded. Length of punishment to be determined." He seemed almost ready to let it go before his eyes tightened. "I might still give you a urine test – you look like shit. I can't remember the last time I saw you so pale."

"I'll see your pee test and raise you a hair sample," Marco tried to joke. "Seriously, dad, this is pure exhaustion. Allison…well, you probably don't want details." He could feel himself swaying on his feet, like a boxer who's been rocked by repeated punches. He cursed himself and tried to stay still.

"You're right about that. Still…Marco, are you sure that's everything? I feel like I'm missing something here; something's not right, I can feel it. I want to believe you, and mostly I do. But…you're getting worse, son."

Without realizing he was even going to say it, Marco giggled sleepily and said, "Call the doctor, call the nurse, Marco's bad and getting worse."

His dad just gave him a sideways look. "You're delirious. Go to sleep. I'll let you have four hours, then I'm waking you up to take a piss test. And you'd better pray that you pass it."

Four hours? Marco felt like he'd just won the lottery. "Dad, you're a saint. See you in four hours."

Peter watched him stumble up the stairs. It wasn't drugs, he was sure of it. No kid with pot or mushrooms in his system would be so blithe about the possibility of being caught with a drug screen. But it was something; Peter was damn sure of that. He thought it _could _be a girl, but he didn't think that was all it was.

Peter shrugged and unmuted the TV, worried. Whatever it was, it would come out. These things always did. Peter just hoped that when it did finally come into the light, it wouldn't be something too damaging. _Kids'll be kids, and they have to make their own mistakes. _Peter knew that for a fact.

He also desperately wished it wasn't true.


	15. Sight

_#15 – Sight_

Tobias

To the others, I'm sure it seems like all they do is fight the Yeerks. I mean, they do have lives to live. School, family, homework, chores, social life…these things take time, you know?

It might sound crazy, but to me, it doesn't feel like we're doing enough when it comes to the Yeerks. But then again, all of those things I just listed that the others have to scramble to find time for…well, I don't have any of those things. I have hunting, and I have talking to Ax. And believe it or not, you actually _can _run out of things to talk about with a space alien.

So for a few months there, I filled my time by doing what I can in relation to the invasion. I followed known controllers around and found meeting sites. From those meeting sites, I identified other potential controllers. By following those potential controllers around, I confirmed whether they were definitely controllers, probably controllers, or not controllers. But again, believe it or not, you can finally run out of controllers to follow around.

When that happened, I tried a new tactic – following my friends. Sometimes I watch over them while they're in school, but that's pretty pointless. If they didn't think they'd be safe from the Yeerks at school, they wouldn't go. And to be honest, it's boring. Think about it. Sitting in class yourself is enough to put you to sleep half of the time. Imagine watching someone else do it, and then take into account that that's all it is – watching. No sound to go with it. It's like watching the world's most boring TV show…on mute.

So no matter how I stretch out my few hobbies every day, there's usually a five-to-seven hour stretch where I'm just bored stupid. I decided one day to take up one of my hobbies from my old life – people watching.

With the vision I have now, the hobby is definitely better this time around. Before, I'd just sit by myself on a bus bench or in the food court in the mall and watch people go by. I'd make up lives for them, like what they did, where they were going, what their personality was like, whether they had a boyfriend or girlfriend. Pretty pathetic, I know. But sometimes, when your life sucks, you find all sorts of ways to escape it.

My favorite place was the park. It wasn't some crappy urban park where drug deals went down, either. It was a really nice, beautiful park. It had a stone fountain and granite walkways. Big oak trees provided shade for the people, but there were also expanses of lush, green grass – the kind of flat, uniform grass that makes you think of a football field, only without the ugly chalk lines.

A girl – young woman, really – was the reason I kept going back. She was beautiful, but that wasn't why I checked in on her every day. Her life seemed perfect, even though I was only seeing an hour or so of it a day. I mean, how bad can your life possibly suck if you have an hour of free time to go to the park and relax every day?

She had very white skin, but there was color to it. She spent too much time in the sun to really be called pale, but there was a porcelain-ish quality to her. Her hair was amazing, a long, thick mane of red. The color of it was like copper set on fire. It seemed to catch the sun and glare brighter than the chips of quartz embedded in the granite sidewalks.

Her eyes were a mystical grey-green color I'd never seen before and was sure I'd never see again. Totally unique. She always wore stylish clothes. Expensive-looking, but not garish. Trendy, you know?

Usually she would bring a blanket and spread it out on the lawn to sit in the sun. She always brought her dog – I got close enough a few times to catch its name. Alf. He was a Collie, and he was beautiful, too. Never on a leash, even though there were signs in the park ordering the pair to do otherwise. The leash wasn't necessary – Alf was as well-behaved as could be. The worst he ever acted was if he saw a squirrel he felt was too far away from the safety of a tree…and even then, all he'd do was look at the girl and whine once or twice, as if asking permission to tear that squirrel a new one. A quick, "No, Alf," from her was enough to make the dog lie down and look disappointed, but he never disobeyed.

Sometimes she read novels. Sometimes she wrote poetry that, in all honesty, wasn't that good. A couple of times she brought a light picnic lunch (which she shared amicably with Alf.) And sometimes, all she did was lean back on her elbows, turn her face up to the sky, and enjoy the sunshine. She always seemed happy and at peace.

I was jealous of her and her perfect little life; no point in denying it. I was fascinated by it, too. But one day, something happened that made me reconsider my situation.

She was leaning back and soaking up the sun's rays, and she had the slightest suggestion of a smile on her face. It was an expression of pure contentment. Alf was calmly curled by her side, head to tail, taking a little siesta. I guess I lost track of where I was gliding, because I happened to pass exactly between her face and the sun. I saw as my shadow flitted across her closed eyes, and it caused her to open them.

I saw those foggy green eyes lock onto me, and her expression changed. It was the funniest thing. Her slight smile because a slight pout, and her expression went from relaxed to pensive in an instant. Her eyes tracked my progress, and I forced myself not to react – a normal Red-tail wouldn't care if some clunky, flightless human was tracking it with her eyes. But I watched, and I saw her pensive expression change into one I knew well. One I'd worn myself many, many times as a human. It changed to an appearance of pure longing.

I realized something right then, something wonderful. This perfect person with their perfect little life was jealous – of me. She was jealous of my wings, and my imperfect little life, even if she didn't know the half of it. And I was sure, in that instant, that she would have traded me places.

If I would have had lips, I would have been grinning ear to ear as I wheeled away from the park. I smiled as I do, now – on the inside – and thought about how crazy of a world it really is, when you get right down to it.

Her. Jealous of me.

Amazing.

**A/N – **I'm sorry if these notes are annoying to you, but I feel like I have a right to express my feelings in them. After all, you're reading the parts of me that I put into my writing – why not this part, too? Anyway, I don't want to sound entitled, but I really am disappointed in the reviewership so far. The 50+ people who are reading these chapters in the first day they're up are leaving it to the same two or three people to do all the reviewing, and it's really not fair – to me or to them. Please do the right thing, if you're able to; give a hapless fanfic writer the only possible payment he can get for his time and effort. Throw me a bone, huh? Tell me you hate it. _Anything. _Thank you in advance if you're kind enough to do so, and I hope you're enjoying!


	16. Family

_#16 – Family_

Marco

Making excuses is part of the job when you're an Animorph. You have to bail on a lot of obligations when most of your life is reacting to what the Yeerks are trying to pull. Disappointing people gets to be a habit…and not one I enjoy.

On the same note, it's a constant balancing act. We have to fight the Yeerks, but we also have to keep it secret. Can't have one without the other. And it was because of that fact that I was debarking off of an airplane in central Texas one Friday morning.

My dad's sister was dying of terminal cancer. It was almost her time to go. My dad had flown out earlier in the week; I was able to put off my own trip, but only for a few days. My dad was not going to let me get away with not seeing my aunt before she died…and I didn't want to, anyway. I'm pretty ruthless when I have to be, but I have feelings. I love my family.

Anyway, my uncle was picking me up from the airport. I knew it was going to be him; my dad said that he didn't stay in the house much anymore, anyway. He said he couldn't stand just sitting around, waiting for his wife to die. She didn't want him to remember her the way she was now, hooked up to machines and fussed over by hospice nurses. I guess that's understandable.

I spotted him as soon as I left the gate; he was pretty hard to miss. He stood about 6'5" and was fairly lean for his height. He was dressed in a snazzy three-piece which looked like Brioni or Armani to my layman's eye; Uncle Rick (always Rick, never Richard) wore a suit at all times. If he was awake, he was dressed for success.

I've always looked up to Rick, even though I didn't know him all that well. He'd met my Aunt Patty in college. She liked to joke that their first date was Ramen noodles and boxed wine in a sleazy dorm room; I don't know if that's true, but I do know that they were struggling college students together. After they graduated, Rick took a crappy job in a mailroom in some Silicon Valley office building. He worked night shift at a diner by the house. He took correspondence courses for his master's degree, working on his schoolwork in between making omelets and sorting business mail. Every cent he had to spare went to my Aunt Patty, to keep up the tiny apartment they shared.

Eventually, somebody in the office building (which was owned by a little company called Intel) recognized his intelligence and his ambition and gave him a foot in a door. He didn't waste it. Two years after leaving the mail room, he was Manager of Overseas Accounts. A year after that, he was Director of Public Relations. Two years after that, he was Chief Financial Officer…for the entire corporation. He took stock options instead of Christmas bonuses – turned out to be a pretty good move. Him and my Aunt Patty weren't starving anymore. They ain't eating Ramen, I'll put it that way.

"Marco!" Rick waved, smiling. _How can a guy whose wife only has a day or two left to live smile like that? _I wondered, but I grinned and waved back. I expected him to give me a business-like handshake, but he folded me into a hug. "Good to see you, kiddo. It's been too long."

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry it's…you know…under these circumstances."

He looked at me seriously. "I hope that's out of your system. Your Aunt Patty didn't bring you out here to be sad for her – she just wants to spend a little time with you before she goes." His face tried to twist up, but he smoothed it out. "If you even mention her dying, she's probably going to pop you one. She's trying to pretend like it's not happening…and I hope you'll oblige her."

"Sure," I said. "I won't even mention it."

He grinned again as we walked toward baggage claim. _Wow, he's good, _I thought. If not for my insane talent of reading people, I would have never guess that the man was miserable underneath that smile. "It's time you learned a basic fact of life – adults don't know jack. They're just as silly and stupid as kids sometimes. But hey, if it's what your aunt wants…"

"I'm with that," I told him. "I get it. I'll just be my typical, lovable self around her, and she won't even think about it."

He laughed loudly. It was a pleasant laugh that made you want to laugh along, and I thought that laugh probably had something to do with his success. "Cool."

We waited for my bag to come around the carosel. When I got it and we exited the airport, I halfway expected a limo to pick us up. No flashy displays of wealth from Rick, though; we walked down the breezeway into the parking garage, where the rest of the mere mortals were parked. We stopped when we reached a pearl Mercedes sedan; nice, luxurious, but nondescript all the same. I was a little disappointed. I'd been hoping Ferrari.

Rick didn't miss the look on my face. "Disappointed?" he asked as he clicked the keyless entry and got behind the wheel.

"No way."

"This is an E-class. It might not _look_ obnoxiously fast, but it is."

"Hey, you don't have to justify your good taste to me," I told him. He laughed and wah-wahed the gas as we left the garage, so I could feel the power of the engine.

"That's a big ten-four," I grinned, and he laughed again. We stopped at a red light, and he looked at me in the weirdest way…like he was looking for something. After a moment, he grunted.

"Guess she was right."

"Huh?"

"Patty. She asked me to…educate you."

"On what?" I asked a little nervously. This conversation had taken a turn toward Bizarro-land.

"Your Aunt is under the impression that you're going to be in a position of power one day. Her intuition has always been scary-good…and after spending a few minutes with you, I'm thinking maybe she's right."

"It's no secret that I definitely wouldn't mind being filthy rich," I allowed.

Rick abruptly changed the direction of the conversation…or so it seemed, at first. "So you must be glad your dad's back to the grind. Back to his old job and all that."

"Oh, yeah," I said, surprised. "It took him a while. I wouldn't have blamed him if it took him a bit longer, either." I had that odd double-feeling I got now when I talked about my mom – relief that she wasn't actually dead, and anger that she was a slave of my enemies.

"Your dad has always been a good man. A hard worker. Brilliant mind." He paused to reach under his sun visor and put on his shades. "Do you know what the difference between me and your father is?"

"About three million a year before taxes?"

He laughed pretty hard at that one. "I was going to say luck. I got lucky. Your dad is as hard of a worker as I am. He's actually a good deal smarter. A lot of times in this world, luck is all it comes down to. But in a way, you can make your own luck, too."

I was intrigued – I felt like I was getting an inside look at the mind of a multi-millionaire, and I wanted to make the most of it. "What do you mean?"

"I think everybody gets at least one big break in their life. Most people don't recognize it for what it is, when it comes. Everybody's got a point in their life they look back at and say, "Oh, if only I'd done that differently, I'd be set." I just so happened to take advantage of my opportunity when I got it." He looked at me. "I have the feeling that you will, too."

"I sure hope so. I want an E-class, too."

"It's not all about money, though. Toys are great – trust me, I know. I have one of everything. But if you have enough money and influence, you can change things. When you make a positive difference…_that's _what gets me to sleep at night. Not the jet-skis or the Gulfstream or the time share in Jamaica."

I nodded along, but I was really thinking about how awesome this guy's life must be. He said, "Let's just assume for the sake of argument that you're going to do it. That you're going to make the most of the hand you're dealt in life and you climb to the top. There's a few things you should know about it. Lessons you can learn from me now, instead of learning them the hard way like I did."

"Okay," I said.

"First of all – and this is the most important one – _never forget where you come from. _When you're looking down on the world from your sixtieth story office, never forget that. Think about it every day. Think about the times your dad was drunk, basically unemployed, and struggling just to make rent. Remember how bad things can be so you never lose sight of how good things are for you."

I swallowed hard. Why the hell would anyone want to think about that? But I took the advice to heart. "All right. Next?"

"No matter how tempting it is and how much you care about the person, never do something for them when they have the power to do it for themselves. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"I think so," I said, but I wasn't sure. Rick caught it.

"Why do you think I never sent a check in that bad time for you and your father? I knew damn good and well you two were on the verge of being on the street – trust me, I heard it from my wife every day. Why do you think I didn't pay your rent for you? I spend more on business lunches in a week than your dad was paying for rent on that apartment for a year. So why didn't I help?"

I had often wondered that myself, back when it was happening. "I don't know." I tried not to sound angry.

"Because if I had, you two would still be in that apartment, Marco. You'd still be killing roaches while your dad was drinking or mopping floors. He had the power to help the two of you, he just wasn't _doing _it. As hard as it is, sometimes you have to watch and let people hit rock bottom before they can climb their way out. If you bail them out, they'll never figure it out. Understand?"

It made sense. It was hard and cold, but in a way it was more caring than writing a check. "Yes, I do. That's…deep, Uncle Rick."

"It's just common sense, when you get right down to it. But keep it in mind; you'll do more good with tough love than with soft love, in the long run."

"All right," I agreed. "I can see that. What about the next one?"

He thought about how to phrase it for a second. "This goes hand-in-hand with the first rule. Never treat people like they're worth less than you are."

"But some people _are _worth less than others."

"Not true," he said. "We're all people. It's only what we do that differentiates us from each other. We're all the same, inside…we all have the same hopes and dreams and feelings. Don't you ever forget that. You know why I take the time to remember the janitor's name who's in charge of cleaning my floor? Because anything can happen. That guy could end up being my boss one day. That guy might come to work with a gun, and because I took the time to ask how he was doing, he might not fill me full of lead."

"That's deep, too," I said, and I meant it.

We were pulling into a gated community, now. The houses looked more like castles. He drove slowly. "Never forget where you come from. Never do something for someone that they can do for themselves. Always treat everyone equally, and well." He took off the shades and studied me seriously. "The last one is important too. It's going to sound cheesy, but it's true. If you lose this one, everything you've done and will do is all for nothing. _Always have love in your heart._"

I couldn't help it; I laughed out loud. "What?"

He just nodded seriously. "I told you it sounds cheesy. But that's what will make sure you're a good man, always. Keep the love for your family in your heart. Every day. Keep love for what you do in there. If you don't love what you're doing, _quit. _Find something else to do. Life is too damn short to waste your time doing something you're not passionate about. If you love something enough, you'll hate it, too. But if you feel that way, you can be sure it's really important. So do it, and love it while you do it. Be grateful and have love, and good things will happen, Marco."

_If you love something enough, you'll hate it, too. _I had never thought of it in those terms…but didn't that apply perfectly to my fight against the Yeerks? My desire to free my mom? My need to keep my friends safe? The aspiration to keep the human race safe from a threat they couldn't see? I had always thought being forced into this war was unfair, ridiculous. But if what this man was saying was true, then should I actually be grateful? Could I even bring myself to feel gratitude?

I looked at his somber face as we pulled into the driveway of his mansion. Gratitude would be stretching it…but I could keep love for my friends, family, and fellow humans in my heart. I thought that I could do that.

I wasn't convinced it would work, but I was willing to give it a try.

Rick turned off the car, took a deep breath, and said, "Game face, Marco. Be yourself, and be in a good mood. Do it for her."

"I will," I promised.

I would keep that love in my heart, and I would see if it worked at getting me through adversity like Rick said it would.

**A/N – **Maybe I'm flattering myself, but there's a good chance that people will want to know what happened with Marco's aunt. All I can say is that this piece served its purpose – I wanted to kind of explain how Marco's able to deal with sudden fame and wealth at the end of the war. Just keep in mind that there are going to eventually be 100 of these snippets, and I plan on coming back to this topic to explore his interaction with his aunt. Thanks again for reviewing: Chiroptera Jones, Sweetbriar, and all the principles of heroism.


	17. Frail

_#17 – Frail_

Jake

I was tired. Temptation always comes when you're tired.

I was lying in bed, thinking about how nice it would be if the Yeerks had picked a different planet. I was envisioning my life if the world was a sane place. If Tom wasn't infested. I probably wouldn't have been good enough to make varsity basketball before Tom graduated. But if Tom had worked with me every day, maybe. I wouldn't have started with him, but at least I'd be on the bench while he broke scoring records. At least we'd have pictures taken of the two of us together, on the court in the same uniform.

"I can't offer you that," said the shrill, unmistakable voice of Drode. I knew it was him before I even opened my eyes. I wasn't even surprised – he was making a habit of showing himself to us while we were at our lowest.

"Get out," I told Crayak's minion, who was sitting on my dresser. "You're not supposed to interfere, and right now you're interfering with my sleep. So get out, and don't come back."

"I can't offer you what you want," he said, faking sympathy and totally ignoring my words. "But I can offer you what you _need_."

"What I _need _is your absence," I told him.

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Crayak and the Ellimist have come to agree on one thing about this game – you and your friends have overperformed. You have done better than Crayak ever expected. You have done better than even the Ellimist expected, though of course he would never admit that."

"Good for us," I said harshly.

"The mighty Crayak thinks you deserve a reward for your perseverance. The Ellimist…agrees. Would you like a reward, Jake?"

"I don't want _anything_ from you or your master." I was focusing on the way Drode had hesitated when he claimed the Ellimist had agreed with Crayak. That was important.

"A vacation is what my master is offering you and your friends. As long as you'd like it to be. You will be placed on an island by yourselves and be given everything a human could possibly want or need in order to enjoy a vacation. Crayak wants you at your best in this war. He is offering you an unlimited amount of time to relax, rest, and gather yourselves for the second part of this battle. When you are ready, you will be returned to your timeline exactly where you left it. What do you say, Jake?"

"I say it sounds like a trick. Why would Crayak do that? Kicking us while we're down is more his style."

"No trick." Drode tried to convey sincerity with his laughing eyes and didn't even come close. "You will leave your timeline, go on vacation, and be returned the moment you're ready to come back. That is all. Think about it – if it were anything more than that, the Ellimist would not allow me to be here, offering it to you."

That was true. And what he was offering _was _tempting, if I took the offer at face value. But there had to be some kind of trick involved.

I envisioned all of us on an island, unbothered and unhurried by the war. How would that negatively affect us? Marco would love it.

That was the thought that made me figure out the trick of it. It was so simple that it was almost beautiful. Constant pressure was what kept us gelled together as a team. Take away that pressure, and we'd have time to fight about the things that don't matter.

Marco would never want to leave. Rachel would be anxious to get back to the fight. Ax would not understand why we were shirking our duty. Envisioning Crayak's "vacation" was making me see how frail our unity could be when not united by an overwhelming, common goal.

That was his angle. Take away the pressure that held us together, and maybe we'd drift apart. Not for sure, but maybe. And Crayak would stand a better chance.

"Drode? No way. We don't need a break – we've got your boss' number. Tell him not to bother with these offers anymore. He can't delay the inevitable. We're going to win, and he's just going to have to deal with it. You go back and tell him that."

"As you wish, you foolish human." He disappeared.

I rolled over and settled in to sleep. I couldn't help smiling. The offer could only mean one thing – Crayak didn't like the way things were going. He was getting nervous.

His offer had done the opposite of what he'd expected. If Crayak was nervous, we were doing something right. I felt recharged. I felt ready.

Crayak was getting desperate, and that gave me hope.


	18. Who

_#18 – Who_

Jake

Who am I?

I guess it's a common question people ask themselves, but it's a good one. Maybe I have to ask myself that more than most people.

I looked it up. My name, I mean – Jake. Jake can mean a men's restroom. Go figure. Sometimes I feel like that, actually. That I'm just a place people crap in. Crude, but true.

An insane person; that's another slang definition for jake. As in, "That jake out there is saying alien invaders are on Earth! What a crazy person! What a jake!"

Jake is also a way to say everything is okay. During a sunny day, an old-timer might just say, "Wow, it sure is jake outside."

What's in a name? I think Shakespeare said that. In my case, I guess there are a lot of different reasons to say my name.

I aim to see to it that by the time all is said and done, Webster adds another definition for the word 'jake.'

Jake (_n_) – A natural enemy of the Yeerks (see _extraterrestrial, n_).

"_That guy is a real jake; he kills Yeerks on sight._"

(_v_) - To strike fear into an oppressor.

"_The slaves are getting restless. It's really jaking the slavemaster._"


	19. Broken

_#19 – Broken_

Shelt 422 felt the vibration go through the liquid in his small working pool and headed to the infestation point. He was a Grader, First Class, which meant he was the last line of defense between his brother Yeerks and defective hosts. The Junior Graders who initially tested hosts were usually adept at their jobs, with Shelt being little more than an insurance policy.

He felt the familiar sensation of a human ear in his pool and quickly and expertly slithered inside. As he made contact with the brain and the senses lit up – sight, smell, hearing – he worked to not be overwhelmed. Even with only fifteen minutes of rest in his natural state between hosts, the sudden influx of sensory input was always borderline overpowering.

He quickly and efficiently took control of the human, ignoring the whining. Humans always thought they could get out of the mess they'd found themselves in by whining and begging – quite tiresome, really. Shelt ordered the Hork-Bajir guard to release him and began his physical examination.

Fingers – ten of them, all in working order. Flexibility of this host was a level nine – a good indicator that the host was young and in good physical condition. Shelt reached out the arms to the pressure bar beside his pool and noticed they were heavily muscled, but was still impressed when the readout on the machine came back at 8.33 – the host he was currently occupying was able to apply almost five hundred Earth pounds of force using only his arms and chest muscles.

He began to run on the piece of human equipment known as a treadmill. The device was connected to a Yeerk computer for all sorts of technical data, but that was information for the Host Technicians. Shelt's only concern was that this human could sprint for three minutes without suffering anything physically detrimental. While he did this, he began to search the mind he now occupied for his mental test.

Intelligence was a level seven – above average, but unremarkably so. All of the neural pathways seemed to conduct electricity like they were supposed to. Shelt had almost moved on to the next phase of his mental examination before a warning bell went off in his own mind. The brain had conducted the minor electrical pulses he'd put out very efficiently…almost _too_ efficiently…

Shelt searched the mind as the body ran flat-out on the treadmill. As he accessed different portions of the hosts brain – memory, impulse, behavioral reactions – he began to notice a trend of barriers. They weren't unbreakable barriers…more like soft, tricky areas that constantly wanted him to stay away. _Nothing here, don't bother looking, _they seemed to whisper. Apparently, the Junior Graders had been swayed by the persuasive qualities of the barriers, but Shelt could not afford to be. He broke through, and what he found was a grim disappointment.

Personality after personality were compartmentalized and hidden throughout the mind. Not just hidden from an intruder like Shelt; hidden from each other, as well. Shelt stopped the physical run test in disgust.

"_Why did you stop? The test still has one minute and ten seconds,_" the Hork-Bajir assistant asked Shelt in Galard.

Shelt's explanation was a lot more callous than a human doctor's would have been. A human doctor might have pronounced the human afflicted with multiple personality disorder. Even a good controller would have trouble with this disorder, which the Yeerks viewed as a human's natural defense against a mental intruder. It would be like trying to control ten hosts at once. Or twenty. However many personalities this human had inside of him. If the controller got complacent in having control over one of the minds, and the human's brain switched personalities too quickly to notice…and if it did so in a place where other humans might notice a host suddenly regaining control from its controller…unacceptable risk.

Shelt's callous explanation was perfect, in terms of a Yeerk perspective. He simply shrugged at the Hork-Bajir and said, "This one is broken. Get rid of it." He left his host, back into his pool, and thought smugly, _Where would this invasion be without me?_

**A/N – Thank you for the reviews, and this is exactly why I need them! I thought I was being clever with a "misdiagnosis" for schizophrenia, but it didn't come off like I wanted to at all. Once I re-read, I realized that all of you are very right – there's no reason an omniscient narrator would try to act like he/she didn't know humans well enough to know the difference, so good catch, everybody…and thank you again!**


	20. Home

_#20 – Home_

**Marco**

I pride myself on being level-headed. Most of the time.

Sometimes I freak out. I'll be the first to admit it. But there's always a _reason_ for my freak-out. I guess that's why what happened on a random Tuesday kind of shook me up.

I won't bore you with details, but I fell asleep in Physical Science. Had a very unpleasant dream about my dad being decapitated by Visser Three. Woke up to the teacher telling me I'd failed the quiz I'd fallen asleep on top of, and that she was throwing in a detention for sleeping in class to boot. As I was leaving class, a sub-human puke named Garrett tripped me. I sprawled out onto the floor with the class laughing at me and blood running from a cut on my chin.

I remember the thought I had very clearly as I walked out of the building and directly away from the school, even though I still had three classes before the end of the day. _This is what I'm risking my life for? To save _these _jackasses? Not anymore, pal, not me._

I had no destination in mind. I couldn't go home, because my dad would be there. It was his week to work swing shift. I didn't want to morph. I didn't want to even _think _about morphing. I didn't want to think about anything. I just needed to feel like I was doing something besides being the world's biggest doormat. I needed to disappear for a while.

Without consciously deciding to go there, I found myself at the bowling alley. Not the nice one uptown, but the crappy one downtown that smelled like moldy bread, stale beer, and cigarettes. I relished that stink as I walked in. I had gone here all the time, back when my mom first disappeared and my dad lost his mind. It stank, but it was a _comforting _stink, if you can dig it. It was the smell of escape.

The voice behind the counter made me fall another ten feet down the rabbit hole – it was Charlie. Same old Charlie – gruff, bad-mouthed, chubby Charlie. I smiled at him, though, because I knew Charlie was also the world's biggest softie behind that rough exterior. Charlie was a Certified Friend of the Truant. "If it ain't Marco. Thought you got too good for us, pal. Still a size five?"

"Hey, Charlie," I said, instantly feeling better. "It's actually a size seven now, but I just came to say hi. I only have…" I rummaged in my pocket and came out with the goods. "A dollar seventeen."

He turned around and searched under the counter, showing his plumber's crack, and put some shoes in front of him. "That dollar will get you a Coke. Free refills, you know – damn government hasn't put me so far in the poor house I can't give free refills no more. Hasn't put me so far in that I can't offer an old friend a free lane for an hour or two, either. How's your pops?"

This little bit of casual kindness almost brought me to tears. When you get used to being crapped on all the time, a little bit of unexpected niceness can really catch you off-guard, in the best way. Charlie pretended not to see as I stuffed the tears back down my throat. "He's good, man, thanks. How've you been?"

"Same old shit, different day," was his usual reply. He added something to it this time, though, after uncomfortably looking down at his sneakers. "You know I always liked you, kid. I got worried when I didn't see you for a while. Glad you're okay."

The tears welled up again, and I had a harder time forcing them away. "I'm good. Sorry I haven't come by in a long time." It was lame, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yeah, well, you're growin' up. Can't spend all your time hanging around bowling alleys. Gimme that dollar, and Jess'll bring your Coke. Lane sixteen."

I couldn't help it. I was like a boxer who was feeling the effects of accumulated punches…these jabs of kindness had me rocked. I wiped my eyes, embarrassed, and said, "Thank you, Charlie."

He turned away from me, but not before I saw a suspicious gleam in his own eye. "You always got a home here, Marco. Even if the place does smell like shit."


	21. Fall

_#21 – Fall_

**Cassie**

Things change in the fall.

Summer doesn't die in my hometown, not like it does in other parts of the country. It fades. The way you can tell isn't by temperature. You can't really tell by the leaves changing color. The leaves come later, as if they're holding out as long as they possibly can. It's usually almost officially winter before they start to fall off for the year.

The smell of the air changes, and that's how I always know fall has arrived. It's not a specific smell, nothing I can put my finger on. Even though the temperature hasn't dropped by more than a couple of degrees at this point, you can always smell the change in the air. Everything smells somehow fresher, newer. The wind is somehow crisper and more alive. Even the sounds seem to be amplified. But mostly, it's that unidentifiable yet undeniable smell.

When I smell that smell, I know that more than the season is changing. I've been conditioned to know. I know that the number of patients in the Center will drop off. For a while, at least. The animals know about fall, too, and it's like they slow down just a little. They just don't seem to get injured as often.

I know that's it's time to work harder in our gardens, at least for a while. Collecting the last crop of corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and other assorted veggies is mostly my job. It's really more tradition now than anything else. Back when my grandparents owned the farm we live on, the crops were to get them through the winter. Now, my mom and dad give most of it away to friends and co-workers. But some traditions have to be upheld – I've understood that from a very young age. Some skills must be passed on and practiced.

I know school is coming. I know my summer is over. That used to not bother me. I used to like school. But now, it's impossible for me to see school as anything but a time-monster. A beast that eats up a bunch of time that I just don't have to spare anymore. And it's only getting worse with time – the older I get, the more responsibility gets piled on. I know there's going to come a point when I just can't do it anymore. I won't be able to take on any more, because my number one job is protecting humans from Yeerks. I didn't ask for it, but I got it. I'm not complaining, just stating fact. There's no one else to shrug my number one job off onto. Even if there were, I wouldn't.

A lot of things are going to have to change this fall in particular. I'm not talking about the positive changes I usually associate with the season, either. Things are going to have to change for worse, at least on the surface. I'm going to have to deal with some disappointment. I'm going to have to deal with some questions. But this is my responsibility, and I accept it. I accept the fact that I have to appear less responsible in order to be _really _responsible.

I'm going to have to turn down the internship at the Gardens. It's been a huge deal to my mom ever since I confirmed I wanted to be a veterinarian at the age of eight. She's been waiting for my sixteenth birthday so we could work side by side and she could teach me what she knows to help me along my – our – chosen career path. She's going to be confused, hurt, and probably a little scared at my decision. But if I don't do my number one job to the best of my ability, there aren't going to be any colleges for me to attend. There aren't going to be veterinary seminars to go to. There aren't going to be any animals to take care of, and even if there are, there aren't going to be any humans to do it.

I'm going to have to opt out of the Allied Health program at school. I was already pre-registered and pre-approved, and it's supposed to be this really big honor. I would love to take the class – it's the closest thing to a veterinary program we have, and I've always kind of secretly thought I might like human medicine, even though I do love my animals. I had decided to give it a fair chance. But it's not just a class – there's a lot of extracurricular work that goes with it. After school rotations in clinics and hospitals. I just can't spare the time.

Sacrificing these things is going to hurt me. It's _already _hurting me, just thinking about it. But the disappointment is going to be the worst. I've always been satisfied at being a responsible young lady my parents can be proud of. I'll be putting a big dent in that image. But the fight with the Yeerks can't wait.

I may not like it, but things change in the fall.


	22. Circle

_#22 – Circle_

As far as Steve was concerned, the circle was complete.

To play a decent poker game, you need at least five guys. Steve's home game, which he'd been holding in his basement since he'd bought the house (two days after Tom's first birthday), was finally back on after a long hiatus. After Peter had quit because of Eva's disappearance, the other three guys had tried to carry on the tradition…but gradually, they'd made excuses to not show up. The game started getting cancelled more than it was held, and eventually the guys weren't even calling with excuses anymore. The game fell by the wayside.

Steve had been excited when Peter had called and casually inquired about starting it back up again. The excitement had been tempered, though, because life had moved on for everybody since the game had stopped. As he called around to his poker buddies without much hope, he was pleasantly surprised to find that all of the guys wanted to do it. They sounded excited about the card game, sure, but Jason, Albert, and Edward were so full of questions about Peter that it led Steve to believe they were happier that Peter was "back."

He'd dusted off the card table and counted the old chip set. He'd bought three fresh decks of cards from the market. Jean had even pitched in by making assorted dips and filling the cooler with ice and beer. She thought the game was a little silly, and she wasn't a huge fan of Steve gambling…but it was a dollar ante limit game. Even if he had a mind to, he couldn't do the checking account much harm under those circumstances.

Steve eyeballed his cards and then his dwindling chip stack, thinking he had sure gotten rusty over the year and a half that he hadn't played. He had always been the one to rebuy first after going broke. He was a late-runner, everybody knew that.

Peter casually tossed his hand into the muck, even though he'd been dealt a reasonable ace nine. He wasn't there for the cards, and nothing but the most premium starting hands was going to hold his interest. He was there because a return to the poker game was one more step in the return to normalcy. He swigged his beer and belched loudly, and grinned when the other guys at the table laughed raucously.

"You in or out, Eddie?" Jason asked with a tone of put-on annoyance. Just like they all knew that Steve thought of himself as a late-runner, they knew that Edward studied his cards like a book before making any decision at all. Eddie grunted and dropped the required dollar chip into the pot, then turned to Peter with an air of laxness…but that was as put on as Jason's annoyance.

"How's Marco doing?" Edward asked.

Pete laughed and crunched his beer can on his forehead, an act the others had always been amused by. "The damn kid is too smart for his own good. He thinks he's already smarter than his old man, and it's giving me fits."

"He probably _is _already smarter than his old man," Jason joked as he raised the pot limit. They all laughed at that, and Peter just gave a rueful I-won't-argue-with-that smile.

"Steve's boy will keep him out of trouble," Albert said confidently as he tossed Peter another beer. "Jake's a forty-five year old in a fifteen year old's body. A _responsible _forty-five year old." Albert shot a glance at Steve, making sure he hadn't overstepped. "Or has he started raising hell himself?"

Steve laughed easily. "I wouldn't know – he's never around anymore. But his grades are decent, he stays out of trouble at school, and he hasn't stolen my station wagon yet. As far as I'm concerned, that's as good as it gets."

"Better than Royce," Edward said sourly, talking about his own son. "I had to talk to his football coach last week about letting him stay on the team. The kid is a hell of a tight end, but he's more interested in chasing girls than pigskins." He gave Steve a pointed look. "From what I hear, one of the girls he's considering chasing is your niece."

"Rachel?" Steve asked, surprised. "Huh. Not that there's anything wrong with your kid, Ed, but Rachel's never struck me as the type to date a football player." He considered this, then added, "Never really struck me as the type to date anybody, really. That girl is…strange."

"Strange or not, all the boys seem to be interested," Peter chipped in, shuffling up for his turn on the dealer button. "She called last week for Marco, but he wasn't in – big shocker. But he was _very _interested in what she had to say when she called," he laughed, tossing the cards out. "Made me repeat what she'd said word for word."

The door separating the kitchen from the basement cracked open just then. The men heard Jake yell back through the kitchen, "I don't know, mom, I'll ask him." Jake clomped down the stairs, and all of the guys guiltily said hello to him – kids always seemed to show up right when you were trying to talk about them. Jake waved distractedly, then focused on Steve. "Mom wants to know if we have any more vacuum cleaner filters. And she said I have to ask you if I want to go to Marco's."

Steve grinned. "Vacuum filters are in the hall closet, second shelf. And you have to ask Peter if you want to go trash his house while he's over here."

"Oh, hey, Mr. Pete," Jake said. "Is it all right? Marco wants to meet up, and we might go to the arcade. I guess he wants to get crushed at some video games."

The guys laughed again, and Peter smiled. "No problem, but tell him he has to straighten his room before he goes anywhere. And his homework had better be done."

"Sure thing, Mr. P. See you later, dad. Bye guys!" He took the stairs two at a time and was gone before Steve's friends could even return the goodbye.

"Do they ever stop going?" Steve wondered as he checked his cards and raised the pot. "I remember a time where I couldn't get them off of the couch. Now I never see them, except for something like that," he waved his hand in the general direction that Jake had gone.

"Nope, Marco's the same way," Peter confirmed. All the other guys had folded, but Pete put a small stack of chips in the middle. "Gonna cost you the rest of your stack if you want to see if I got it, good buddy," he told Steve easily.

"Thank for the free money," Steve said, shoving it in. "Three aces," he announced, laying his cards down with a flourish.

Peter grinned. "That's a good hand…but remind me again. My flush beats that, right?" he teased as he laid down his own cards. The guys in the circle let out a loud, "Oooooh!" at Steve's blush as Peter scraped the pot toward him.

Steve pointed at the chip case and hauled out his wallet. "Don't get used to those chips, Pete. You're just holding them for me. Rebuy me for thirty bucks, Al." While Albert counted out the chips, Edward shuffled the cards and began the deal.

And the game went on.


	23. Mirror

_#23 – Mirror_

Uriah Higgins felt a surge of adrenaline as he read the first few lines of the short essay on his desk. For the first time in his short teaching career, he felt like a success. He felt like maybe, just maybe, he had finally gotten through and gotten a student to _think_.

He wanted to savor this moment.

He got up and drew the shades on his two classroom windows. The shades didn't shut out the noise coming from the band practice in the field beside his classroom, but that was okay. He sat back down, put on his glasses, and read.

_Jake Berenson_

_3__rd__ Period English Comp_

_March 4__th__, 1998_

_The Mirror_

_What do I see when I look into the mirror? It's a very tough question to answer, because I see many things, all of them different. A lot of the things I see conflict with each other. I guess that's just human nature, though; when I really stop to think about it, nothing about being human makes much sense. There are thousands of little wars that go on inside of us every day, and the sides which win those wars define us as a person. I assume it's the same for everybody; for me, I know I have to redefine myself as a person every single day._

_The first thing I see when I look into the mirror is pride. I don't know if it's forced. I'm not sure if the pride I see is only there because it's a habit for me to _make_ it be there. Regardless of the reason for it, that's the first thing I see when I look – pride._

_I see the fear. I am afraid. Of nothing, of everything. Again, the reason for its presence isn't the important thing; the important part is that it's there. It's standing right beside the pride. Maybe the pride couldn't even live without the fear; maybe, if I weren't surviving in the face of this fear, I wouldn't have anything to be proud of._

_Right underneath the fear and pride are two more characteristics that go along with them. I see desperation and hope. They're right behind pride and fear, and they're holding hands with each other, too. Sometimes they don't get along with each other; when they fight, I always want hope to win. Sometimes Desperation gets a first round knockout, but most times, Hope fights it to a judge's decision. And since I'm the one who gets to judge the fight, I always say Hope is the winner, whether it's true or not. Even if Desperation beats the living tar out of Hope for ten rounds, as long as Hope doesn't hit the canvas, I always raise Hope's hand and declare it the winner._

_Quieter, there's determination. I see determination, but only after I look through the pride, fear, hope, and desperation. Even though it's not the first thing I see, I believe it's the biggest part of me. I believe that it has to be. It's the constant. It's the one characteristic which makes me who I am that never takes a holiday. Determination works straight through Christmas Eve, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Labor Day. I love determination like it's my oldest friend, and I'm always grateful that it's a part of me. Maybe that's why I give it the most space in the rental unit that, when taken together, makes Jake who he is._

_What I see when I look in the mirror is like a bunch of scattered puzzle pieces. They're not all neatly put together, but if I try, I can still see the picture they make up. I can see it because I've put this puzzle together hundreds of times. I don't know if I like what I see. Maybe I don't. Maybe I hate it. But whether I like it or not doesn't matter, it's not important. It is what it is, and whether I think it's ideal or not is totally beside the point. The point is that I can see it. I know myself, for better or for worse._

Uriah re-read the essay three times before leaning back in his chair to consider what he'd read. He chewed on the ear of his reading glasses thoughtfully, and a slow smile spread across his face. He felt like he'd just been given a look into one of the great minds of his lifetime. The fact that grammatically and structurally the paper was pretty terrible never even crossed his mind.

'_This kid has got something special,' _Uriah thought. '_This kid is going places. Big, important places. And I got to teach him tenth grade English Comp.'_

Still not thinking of the fact he was allegedly grading Jake's paper based on the grammar, punctuation, and composition, he wrote _Fantastic Work! 105, A++! _across the top. He'd never given a grade above a 100 before, but that was hardly relevant – he'd never read a work that _deserved _better than a 100 before. After a second's thought, he scribbled this under the grade:

_Jake, I was moved by this. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to discuss it with you. Trust me, you're not in any kind of trouble – I want to pick your brain and find out if there's any way you can help me get this sort of work out of your classmates. Thank you for taking the assignment seriously, and excellent work!_


	24. Touch

_#24 – Touch_

**Rachel**

"Hawks don't mate for life," Tobias said through a mouthful of pizza. I'd brought a medium pepperoni out to his meadow, and he'd morphed to human to eat it with me. I try to do something like that at least once a week. Something to remind him that he's human…but even more than that, it's to remind him that someone cares about him. A lot.

I wasn't sure how we'd gotten onto this topic, but the matter-of-fact way he made that comment really bugged me. As if he were saying that since he was half-hawk, he wouldn't mate for life, either. Crude way of shooting down a "happily ever after," if you ask me. I was two seconds away from making a comment I'd probably regret when I looked at him and saw the grin on his face. He'd been needling me the whole time, the jerk.

I still didn't let it go entirely, though. "Humans don't necessarily mate for life, either. My mom and dad were in love. That's a fact. Now they can barely stand each other."

He kept right on grinning and munching his pizza enthusiastically. "Yeah, that's true. But if we're going on absolutes…kids can't turn into animals. Aliens don't exist. Parasites can't take control of a brain and steal bodies."

I rolled my eyes. "What are you getting at, Tobias?"

"I'm just saying that the normal rules don't apply to us. After this is all over, if we want to be together forever, we can be. It's up to the two of us and no one else."

I got thoughtful for a minute when he said that, imagining what life would be like with Tobias. Just the two of us, without the pressures of the war and the secrets. It was pretty great to imagine. The one thing that worried me was big – it might even be a deal breaker. I couldn't be with a boy who spent most of his time as a hawk, no matter how much I loved him. It was fine for now, because there wasn't any other choice. He couldn't give up the power to morph for me – the humans needed him and I wouldn't let him even if he were willing.

On the other hand, I loved him too much to ask him to give up his wings, when this mess was all over. It was the neatest, most horrible Catch-22 I could ever imagine.

As usual, he seemed to be able to read my mind. He put his slice of pizza down and stared into my eyes. "Do you think I love flying more than I love you?" he asked.

"Do you?" I shot back before I could get a handle on my mouth. Even though I regretted the question as soon as it was out, I didn't take it back. Damage was done, so I let it hang. To my everlasting relief, he smiled and reached out and took my hand.

The tips of his fingers in my palm felt like they were mildly electrified. His thumb rubbed along the back of my hand, and I thought I could feel his love for me in that small motion. I knew that was absolutely ridiculous and impossible, but I felt it just the same. Feelings aren't always rational, but this one was a whopper of irrationality.

He caught and held my gaze. "This -" he said, indicating where he was holding my hand. "This touch should tell you the answer to that question." And he was right, it did. At that moment, I was sure which one he would pick when given a choice between flying and me.

He gently used the grip on my hand to tug me toward him. "And if it's not enough, then maybe this will clear things up." He met me halfway and kissed me softly over the box of pizza. It wasn't some obnoxious, overly-romantic, "oh baby I have to have you" kiss. It was gentle, and kind, and full of love.

He broke the kiss before I did and looked at me anxiously. He was wondering if he'd gone too far. I grinned ruefully at him. "You know, for a guy who claims to be awkward and shy, you're not a half-bad Romeo."

Relief flooded his face, and he laughed loudly. He flipped open the box and grabbed another slice of pizza. "Thanks for this. Thanks for everything."

I smiled and got another piece for myself. "Anytime."


	25. Emptiness

_#25 – Emptiness_

_**When I first met my human friends, I secretly thought of them as a simplistic race. They are anything but simple. Indirect, layered, and confusing are all good adjectives to describe humans. But simple? No. **_

_**-From the Earth Journal of Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill **_

**Ax**

I think if I spent an entire lifetime in the company of humans, we would never run out of surprises for each other.

Marco was shocked when I told him that all Andalites have an instinctual uneasiness about space travel. He could not fathom how such a thing could be so when we had a great starfleet, multiple planetary colonies and outposts, and space stations.

(Your people conquered the sea,) I pointed out. (I have read in my books that the sea was a great, terrifying mystery for much of human history. Your people once thought it full of horrible monstrosities. They believed that if they sailed far enough, they would fall off the end of the world.) I did not add how unbelievably ludicrous such a theory was. (Yet they sailed anyway. They conquered their fears.)

"I guess that's true," Marco conceded. "But space isn't as mysterious as the ocean. I mean, when you look at the grand scheme of things, it's mostly empty. All you have to do to know that is to look up into the sky." He laughed. "There aren't any monsters lurking below the surface in space."

I tried not to let Marco make me angry, something I am getting better at. (That is a very interesting thing to say, given the creatures on your planet at this very moment. And where did these creatures come from, I wonder? Not from your oceans, Marco; they came from space.)

Instead of agreeing with me like a logical person would, Marco pushed his argument from a different angle. "Okay, fine. There are scary things in space – I get it. There are scary things in the oceans, too. If you think a twenty-five foot shark or an eighty foot long squid aren't scary, I'll crap in my shoe and eat it."

I didn't argue that point, although it would have been amusing to watch Marco defecate into his foot covering and then ingest it.

"But to be scared of space itself? I don't get it. It can suffocate and kill you…but so can water. But there's nothing unpredictable or malicious about it."

(We are not _afraid _of it,) I said, feeling my temper rise and not able to help it. (I said it makes us uneasy. We like grass under our hooves and atmosphere above our heads, because that is natural to us.)

"Being _uneasy _about space is the same thing as being uneasy about what's in that box," he pointed to the empty cardboard container my latest books had been carried in.

(There is nothing in that box, Marco,) I said, on the verge of exasperation.

"I know," he said smugly. "It's just emptiness. The same as space."

Tobias had been listening to our "discussion" from a low branch just outside of the scoop. Now he chimed in. (Well, Ax must be _terrified _of the space between your ears, Marco. That's a hard vacuum, too.)

I waited until Marco was out of thought speech range. I do not want him to know I possess a sense of humor similar to a human's. But as soon as he was out of range, I burst out laughing. Tobias joined me. (Don't listen to him, Ax-man. He's just trying to pick a fight because he's bored.)

(Oh, but did you see the look on his face?) I asked gleefully. I was well-versed in human facial expressions by this point, and I know the "blush" was a form of extreme embarrassment. (He did not like your comment at all!)

(He had it coming,) Tobias said smugly. I agreed.

As annoying as Marco can be, I was very glad he'd been forced to move out into the woods with Tobias and I.

He often provided entertainment, if nothing else.

**A/N – A sincere thank you to Sweetbriar, Kim, Chiro, all the principles of heroism, and Salad Shooter for the reviews. Much appreciated, and the main reason I'm still writing this one. …still a lot of folks out there not bothering to let me know what they think…really wish you guys would. This isn't a gripe session, though; just wanted to thank everyone who **_**is **_**reviewing, especially the five I mentioned . =D **


	26. Green

_#26 – Green_

**Jake**

A lot of people would be tense while spying on known controllers. Most people would be interested in not being made by the person they're spying on. Most people would be worried about the hundreds of things that could go wrong.

Marco is not one of those people.

(All right. Best place to watch a playoff game?) This innocent-sounding question was the start to a potential argument. I knew that. But no matter what else has changed about us, the desire to win pointless debates with Marco is not one of them.

(Spread out to the west,) I told him, and he obediently hooked his osprey's glide to the left. Now I was the one who had eyes on the controller through the window of his Camry, but Marco could still see the car, at least.

(Relax. He doesn't even have a sunroof in that P.O.S. He can't see us. Now quit stalling and answer the question.)

I laughed and thought about it. (What sport?)

(Football, duh.)

I had only ever been to one professional football game, but I used to watch a lot on TV. I used to pay attention to that sort of thing. I thought I had a winning answer when I said, (Gotta be New Orleans. The Superdome holds like 100,000 people, and all the announcers say that place gets louder than anywhere else in the NFL.)

(Not bad. You're wrong, of course, but a good answer, at least. Nice try.)

(It's an opinion. How can there be a right or wrong answer?) I challenged him.

(Just because. Now, you want _real _excitement? I'd go to a home playoff game for the Packers.)

(Green Bay?) I wondered out loud, and then dredged up all of my sketchy knowledge on the team. (Why would you want to go freeze your ass off at an outdoor stadium for three and a half hours in January?)

(Uh, history? The real heroes of the game have played their games there. Lambeau is legendary, dude. And you said it yourself, the weather. Guys in short sleeves in five degree weather? Breath pouring out of the helmets like dragon smoke, turning them from mere mortals to gods? _That's _why.)

I considered this. He was right, of course…that had always been one of the craziest parts of the playoffs to me. Guys playing their butts off in that weather. (I'll give you that one, but you had time to think about it. It was your question. So you don't get a point for that.)

He laughed in good humor. (I think I get a point. One for Marco. What about…)

(Will you guys _shut up?_) Rachel asked in a disgusted tone of voice. (I could be doing any number of things right now, and it's bad enough I have to waste my time following a city councilman around. But do I really have to listen to you two geniuses bicker, too?)

Marco completely ignored her. (Best baseball team of all time? And don't say '52 Yankees – that's a gimme.)


	27. Feral

_#27 – Feral_

LIrem-Arrepoth-Terrouss observed the communique between Elfangor's brother and his parents until the connection was severed. (What happened?) he asked sharply of the Halas-Corain lad…Ithileran, his name was. Lirem thought.

Ithileran accessed the communications readout. (The transmission was severed. On his end,) he clarified.

Lirem thought quickly, though there was much to think about. (Your first order is to place a call to Planetary Security. Have them send four officers to Elfangor's parents' homestead. Noorlin-Sirinial-Cooraf and Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen are to have no communication with anyone until further orders are issued.)

Lirem considered his next move while Ithileran followed his first order. He recounted the conversation he'd just had with young Aximili and tried to assert the positive and negatives associated with that conversation.

The negative: the Yeerks were at Earth in force. This had already been known, but the extent had not been. High Command had been afraid that sending in spies after the destruction of the _GalaxyTree _would only serve to hasten the Yeerks' infiltration – that it would scare them into hurrying. At the time, Lirem and the Council had agreed. Now, it looked as if the Yeerks had rushed into it, anyway.

Even worse, Elfangor had broken the law of Seerow's Kindness. He had given the morphing technology to humans. That was very bad news. But Lirem had already taken the first step to righting that wrong – he'd gotten Aximili to assume blame. In the unlikely event that the people ever found out that Seerow's Kindness had been broken on Earth, there would be a willing scapegoat.

The positive: there was some resistance to the Yeerks on Earth. There was something for them to think about. Aximili and his human friends would not be able to do anything to actually slow the Yeerks down – as a matter of fact, all they would be able to manage would be to get themselves killed – but it would be enough to convince the Yeerks that the bulk of the Andalite military had no interest in Earth. That was good. That was a very large part of the framework of Directive Nineteen.

(Sir? Planetary Security has received their orders and is carrying them out.) Ithileran looked stressed, and Lirem did not much blame him. He'd been privy to quite a bit of classified information, and he knew it.

(Good work. Now, delete the records of Aximili's communication, and then summon a transport bound for Council Headquarters,) Lirem ordered.

Ithileran accessed his communication panel and did as he was asked. When the records were gone, he called Transportation Control. (Please report: transport to Communications Array. Destination - Council Headquarters. Passengers – one.)

(Two passengers,) Lirem corrected absently. Ithileran's stalk eyes snapped up, and Lirem saw fear. (You're coming with me.)

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Head of Protocol, Yallsith, droned on. Lirem was barely listening from his position at the head of the panel. (…furthermore, you, Ithileran-Halas-Corain, swear to keep the proceedings herein confidential until declassified. Do you swear these things on your family's honor?)

(I do so swear,) Ithileran said.

Everyone on the council looked to Lirem. None of them had any clue why the emergency meeting had been called, or why the Assistant to the Head of Planetary Communications was being sworn in. Lirem leaned toward Ithileran slightly and spoke in his most serious voice. (Have no fear, Assistant Halas-Corain. You are here simply because you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. After I tell the Council our story, they may have questions for you. They may not. The real reason you are here is to impart a sense of our…seriousness. You have been party to confidential material, and I must be absolutely certain you will _keep _said material confidential. Can you do that?)

Ithileran's right front hoof tried to tap nervously into the grass of the Council floor, but he managed to stop it almost immediately. (Yes sir, I can and will. I have sworn.)

Lirem relaxed; he believed the lad. (All is well, then.) Lirem went on to tell the story of Aximili's unauthorized communication in complete detail, including the steps Lirem had already taken toward covering it up. The mood in the room went from confused, to concerned, to anxious. When Lirem was finished, he looked again at Ithileran. (Have I left anything out, Assistant?)

Ithileran thought before replying, (No, Head Councilor. Your account was accurate.)

Lirem looked at his fellow councilors. (You know what has happened and what has been done about it. Now I ask: what else, if anything, should be done?)

Predictably, the Liason to High Command spoke up. (I move that Andalite Military High Command be informed of this development immediately.)

Silence followed. No one seconded the motion, and Lirem breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was second nature for the Council to leave High Command out of the loop, but it was still a relief to see that they would do so again, and on a matter of such importance.

Councilor Reegan waited a respectful amount of time to let the first motion die before speaking. (I believe the only thing for us to discuss is young Aximili. What should we do about him?) she asked calmly.

Intiss suggested a stealth extraction which was voted down by two-thirds majority. The military would have to be involved in a mission like that, and the Council was still against involving them.

Reegan spoke again after the motion was voted down. (The question is this – can we afford to leave him there? His brother has already disregarded the Law of Seerow's Kindness. How likely is it that Aximili will do the same? In ten years, are we going to have two enemies? Yeerks _and _humans?)

(Assistant Halas-Corain, please leave the room,) Undaar commanded. Undaar, as the Council's Sergeant at Arms, had this right. Ithileran, looking glad to be excused, quickly exited.

When he was gone, Undaar looked around gravely. (This is nonsense. This whole discussion is nonsense. If we truly mean to go through with Directive Nineteen, it does not matter what goes on on Earth.)

Reegan, who had been Directive Nineteen's staunchest opponent, said calmly, (It is not. The Directive relies on the Yeerks completing their infiltration in the same manner as the Hork-Bajir Home World. If there is any chance Aximili disrupts that pattern, the Directive could fail. And if Directive Nineteen is tried and it fails, the Council will be no more.)

Undaar scratched the battle scar on his chest. (Have we not learned from the Hork-Bajir? Is it not time to bring the High Command into the fold and let the military go and fight for Earth?)

(We will not discuss Directive Nineteen again!) Lirem shouted, and everyone on the Council jumped. (Stage One is already in progress. We have decided that Earth is a reasonable price to pay to end the Yeerk threat, and we will not waste time rehashing the same arguments!) Lirem made eye contact with every one of his fellow councilors before continuing. (In my opinion, _Aristh _Aximili will go against my orders. He will help the humans fight in any way he can, including breaking Seerow's Kindness. In my opinion, he has gone feral already. The question is this – will that be enough to disrupt Directive Nineteen? Because if that is a possibility, I move to send an assassination team for Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill now. If it does not seem possible that he can disrupt the directive, then I move to classify the matter and move on.) He waited.

Undaar was the first to speak. (I second the move to classify Aximili's file. I further move to inform his parents that the interruption in his communication was caused by his death.)

Lirem saw the brilliance in that suggestion immediately. (Second Councilor Undaar's motion. I call a vote on both motions as one.)

A chorus of (I so vote yes) filled the Council's chamber. And with it, the fate of Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill and Earth was decided.

By the Andalite High Council, at least.


	28. Enemies

_#28 – Enemies_

Visser Three stood in front of the holo-projector in his private quarters aboard his Blade Ship. As it whined to life and projected the image from across the galaxy, he felt a sensation he normally never felt – apprehension.

The holo-projector simulated the experience of being half-surrounded by eleven hooded and robed figures. Visser Three knew the final two members of the Council of Thirteen were hidden; he also knew they would be listening to this transmission. He waited to be addressed and became even more nervous when none spoke.

(Greetings,) Visser Three said uncertainly, using his stalk eyes to scan all of the visible Council members.

"Report," one of the robed figures said in a monotone Hork-Bajir voice. Through a hologram, it was impossible to tell which of the members had spoken.

(Yes, of course,) the Visser said, calling up all of the pertinent data on his personal computer. (The infestation rate is up. By the end of the quarterly cycle, we will have almost one percent of Earth's population under control.)

"One percent." Another flat voice, this one perhaps a Gedd, commented. It was impossible to tell if it was a question, but Visser Three took it as one.

(Yes,) he said, trying not to let his displeasure color his thought speech. (Many of these controllers will be in a position of power on their planet. The more we take, the faster our infestation rates will grow. But for now, this is the best we can do.)

Silence met his comment, so he ventured on. (It is a long process, I know. A _long _process. Has the Council, in their infinite wisdom, seen fit to review my…revised…infestation plan?)

More silence. Then a faceless voice said, "Your "plan." Yes, the Council has reviewed your proposal. It is our opinion that your plan of open invasion would waste far too many hosts. _Far _too many."

Visser Three prepared himself to do something he'd never done before – be somewhat argumentative with the ruling body of Yeerks. (There are over five billion potential hosts on this planet. Twenty for every living Yeerk. Even if half of them died -)

"We can – and will – breed more Yeerks. We will not waste potential hosts." The voice that made the declaration did not leave anything in its tone to allow an argument. "The infestation will proceed as it has for the last cycle. The humans are to remain unaware of our existence at all costs."

"What is the situation with the Andalite bandits?" another voice from the Council inquired.

Visser Three tried not to let the rage he felt at their very mention affect him. (It is only a matter of time before I crush them. They are a minor inconvenience at most -)

"A minor inconvenience," the Council member who had asked the question mused. "Yes, I can see that from the reports. Seven Bug Fighters destroyed. One hundred and eleven Hork-Bajir controllers killed, two hundred and eighty injured badly enough to miss duty. Ninety-eight Taxxons, dead. Four hundred and twelve Yeerk casualties. Countless amounts of damaged or destroyed hardware and equipment. Nine hundred and forty dead humans – many of which came at your hands, due to your temper tantrums." The owner of the voice paused to let the numbers sink in. "This is what you consider a minor inconvenience? I would hate to see what you consider a true threat."

Visser Three hoped his stalk eyes quivering with madness would not translate to the Council. (We are disadvantaged by our need for secrecy. We are extremely limited in our options when it comes to engaging and hunting these bandits. If I were given a little more leeway in our policies of stealth, I could crush them within one Earth week.)

"Our stealth policies are in place for a reason, as you well know, Visser," a new member said. "Our analysts tell us that there are at most nine members of the Andalite resistance on Earth. How have you not managed to kill one single Andalite in all of the reported engagements between them and our forces? How do you explain your failure?"

(Humans are gullible,) Visser Three said, almost begging. (Even if some of them saw something as our forces searched for and destroyed the bandits, the others would not believe them. If I could just dedicate my forces – all of them – to hunting down these bandits for a short time -)

"You want to delay the infestation process to find Andalites, Visser?" Visser Three did not catch the dangerous edge to the voice which was speaking. He got a clue as to which member it was by violent gestures coming from inside a dark crimson robe. "You want to commit our forces on Earth to finding Andalites? Why? They have no trouble finding you – it seems we receive casualty and damage reports by the dozens. Why can you not destroy them when they come to you?"

"Enough," a gravelly Hork-Bajir voice said. "Visser, your orders are as follows: Increase the infestation rate by .2% by next report. You will not dedicate any Earth forces to finding the bandits. You _will _have progress – tangible progress – to report on the Andalite bandit situation by next report. You will not breach any protocol in place to keep the invasion of Earth a secret." The owner of the voice seemed to remember something. "Oh, and your requisition for additional Hork-Bajir troops has been denied. It is the opinion of the Council that you have more than you need already. Do not disappoint us in any of these objectives, Visser. If you do, we will find someone more suitable for your position." Without a word of farewell, the holo-projector powered down, and the Visser was alone in his chambers again.

Visser Three started the trip to the bridge. He always felt better when he envisioned the Dracon beams on his Blade Ship blasting into the earth. On the way, a human phrase he'd once heard occurred to him. (With friends like these, who needs enemies?) The Council was not his friend, but the phrase did not lose everything in translation.

On his way to the bridge, a human controller with his head buried in a datapad nearly stumbled into the Visser. Without thinking about it, he flung his tail…and the human casualties at Earth went up to nine hundred and forty-one.

It made him feel a little better. Not much, but a little.


	29. Beginnings

_#29 – Beginnings_

_**Excerpt from the Earth Journal of Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill**_

I have been in the company of my human friends for three Earth weeks now, and I can say with complete honesty that they – and human beings in general - are still a mystery to me. Perhaps they always will be; perhaps humans and Andalites are simply too far apart evolutionarily to ever really understand each other.

My emotions on the subject of humans are strangely mixed. I pity them and admire them in equal parts. Andalites are an extremely logical race – we try to create situations to suit us. A good example of this is our Dome Ships – even though space travel is necessary, we try to amend the situation to make us comfortable. We bring our homes with us.

Humans are the opposite. They adjust and invent to suit the situation. Not only did they invent a piece of furniture called a chair to rest on, since they only have two legs, they also further improved upon the design. Some chairs roll on wheels, so a human can move without changing their position. Even more, there are chairs with larger wheels to help disabled humans move more freely. Humans refuse to let circumstance dictate their actions – they are a very willful species.

This determination and desire to conquer worries me a bit. Humans are technologically behind the advanced races of the universe, but they learn very quickly. Much faster than Yeerks, and even faster than we Andalites. I suppose it is lucky the Yeerks came upon this planet in this early stage of its development – I do not know for sure, but I think it's possible the humans could have been a great threat to the peace of their galaxy and the entire universe in a relatively short period of time.

When my people come and save the humans, I believe this ability to learn quickly will serve them – and us – well. They will understand that conquering other races is immoral after they themselves must be saved from a conquering race like the Yeerks. With we Andalites there to help mold their growth into a space-faring people, I believe they will be great allies. I do not pretend to understand the humans' interplanetary system of government and the division they have in place against each other, but it seems to me they have never had something strong enough to unite them. I believe having a common enemy in the Yeerks _will _unite them.

Will they be able to live in peace with the galaxy and with Andalites without a clear and present danger? I cannot say for sure. But, like I said, humans learn quickly. And as violent and aggressive as they can be, they can also be very compassionate. Humans see the merit in logic, and they are slowly integrating the concept into their governments, but they are still a highly emotional people. This is both an advantage and disadvantage.

The most important question for me to answer upon my union with the five human freedom fighters was this – are humans able to be saved? After spending time in their company, I think the answer is yes.

The next question I had to answer was: are humans _worth _saving? Is their continued existence beneficial to the peaceful species of the universe?

This question is harder. There are many variables, many unknowns. Saving them and elevating them into a galactic presence will be risky. It could backfire, just as Seerow's kindness to the Yeerks backfired. Our most absolute law was formed out of Seerow's mistake – we Andalites do not believe in making the same mistake twice.

Saving the humans would not be making the same mistake, in my eyes. It may turn out to be a completely different mistake, but it will not be the same as the Yeerks. And so the answer to my second question is yes, the humans are worth saving. They are an acceptable risk to this galaxy, while the Yeerks are not.

That answer is the one I need to know my duty. Because I am able to answer that question in the affirmative, I will fight for them. I will fight for the humans and I will fight for my own people, and I will fight to avenge Elfangor.

Good or evil? Perhaps that would be an easier question to ask about the humans, in determining whether or not to save them. I cannot answer it, though. Are they evil? No. They do atrocious things to each other, but in every instance I have seen, it is mostly out of ignorance. I see sickness and ignorance and desperation, but I have not seen any examples of pure evil. If they are there, the humans keep them a close secret.

Are they good? I don't believe that, either. Many of their intentions are good, but good intentions have never been of any use to this galaxy or any other. It is action that counts.

Humans are not good, nor are they evil. They are simply emotional creatures. So why would I save them from the Yeerks? Why would I not stand aside and let the two races tear each other to pieces?

Because humans are capable of great love. And, in my opinion, the galaxy needs more of that.

_**A/N – I know it's a little introspective for Ax's character…but this was allegedly written by him before he shared his race's knowledge with the Animorphs. He hadn't completely opened to them, and I'm assuming that the time before he did was a lonely and introspective time. Anyway, it's just a fanfic. Don't take it too seriously ;)**_


	30. Strangers

_#29 – Strangers_

"What time is your curfew, again?" Melissa's boyfriend asked, goosing the throttle of his prized Camaro up a notch and glancing at the clock set into the dash.

Melissa stopped rummaging through her purse for long enough to give him a skeptical look. "Since when do you care?" she asked, honestly curious. She'd picked Will for a boyfriend based on one factor alone – the fact that he was willing to break rules. Not because he was handsome – he wasn't. He had greasy, scraggly hair and he rarely shaved. His breath was usually bad because he smoked a lot. His skin had a dull, blotchy appearance due to the fact that he drank day and night.

No, he wasn't the sort of guy her parents would want her to be with. But that was the point, wasn't it? Melissa had known the second she'd seen him leaning against the gas station wall that he was perfect for what she wanted. He obviously fancied himself a 21st century James Dean, with his pleather jacket and Marlboro Red hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was – or at least thought he was – a rebel. And that suited Melissa's purposes just fine.

"I don't know," he answered Melissa's question. "I don't give a shit what your dad thinks…but it might be best not to antagonize him. You know, in case I decide I actually want to finish school."

Melissa, who'd resumed her search of her purse, found what she was looking for. She stuck the joint in her mouth and waited for Will to light it for her – when he didn't, she huffed and lit it herself. "Antagonize. Big word," she teased. "Been reading the dictionary?"

"Don't be a bitch," he muttered, but she could see she'd stung him. He might have thought of himself as a bad boy, but the more Melissa got to know him, the more she realized that he was just overcompensating for incredibly low self-esteem. Too bad – he actually wasn't as dumb as he pretended to be. In a lot of ways, it would have been easier if he _was _dumb. After all, Melissa didn't have feelings for him, and she wanted to keep it that way. He was her boyfriend in name only. She didn't actually want a boyfriend, she wanted a puppet to use in her war against her father.

"At least crack a window," he told her as she blew pot smoke all over the car and herself. "Jesus Christ, Melissa. If we get pulled over, we're screwed."

"Don't be a bitch," she repeated his earlier statement. She wasn't paying attention to Will, wasn't even thinking about him, but if she had been, she'd have seen that she'd hurt him again. His grip tightened on the wheel and his gaze turned straight ahead. They rode in silence the rest of the way to Melissa's house, where he parked three houses down and shut off the engine.

"See you tomorrow," Melissa said, going to open her door to get out. No good night kiss for Will; she didn't kiss him unless she absolutely had to. She thought that's what he wanted when he reached across her and held her door closed. She sighed and turned her face toward him, but realized after a moment that he wasn't moving in for his kiss.

"No, you won't," he said, and he almost sounded sorry to say it. "You and me, we're done. I like you, Melissa…but you're not right. I see bad things in the road if I stay with you."

She looked at him curiously. "Are you breaking up with me?" He nodded. She tried to feel something, but couldn't. She wanted to demand a reason; she wanted to ask him if he thought he could do better. None of those things came out, though, because she simply didn't care. She couldn't even care when she tried. "All right. Bye." She opened the door, and this time he didn't stop her.

On the short walk to her front door, she realized that she was pretty drunk and very stoned. Good. Maybe this time it would be enough. She fumbled with the house key for a good thirty seconds before managing to slide it home and turn it to let herself in.

Her father was sitting on the couch in front of the TV. It was on and he was staring at it like he was watching it, but it was just some infomercial for a workout video. As Melissa stumbled across the threshold, he slowly turned his head. "Do you know what time it is, young lady?" he demanded. The words were right, the tone was right…but still, those words were somehow empty. Totally devoid of any real emotion, just like they had been for the last two years. They were like lines delivered by a skilled actor – believable, unless you knew the actor personally.

"Two thirty-five," she answered defiantly, trying to give him a level stare. Easier said than done, since she was seeing double at the moment.

"Your curfew on school nights is eleven. You know this. Yet you insist upon breaking the rules." None of this was a question, so Melissa said nothing. "You're grounded for two weeks. Go to your room."

It was obvious that was going to be the extent of it…just simple crime and punishment with no emotion. Melissa broke. "Don't you want to know where I was? Who I was with?" she shouted, starting to cry. "Don't you want to know what I was doing? Why I reek of weed? _Don't you care about why I was out getting trashed on a school night, Dad?_"

Chapman's expression did not change at the sight of his weeping daughter. He just gave her an icy stare and said, "Motivations do not interest me. Actions do. You broke my rules and you will serve my punishment. Go to your room, Melissa."

"_Who are you?_" Melissa shouted through her tear-thickened throat. "You're not my dad! You're a stranger! A complete stranger!"

Chapman's expression stayed calm, but Melissa saw a twitch beside his right eye. It was almost as if he was trying to wink at her, but that was crazy. "If you continue with this tantrum, I'm going to make it three weeks."

Melissa ran up to her room, crying. But as she threw herself onto her bed, she was feeling less upset. Something about that twitch by her father's eye…that was important. It was completely irrelevant, but somehow crucial at the same time. She didn't understand what it meant…but it was _something._ She had finally gotten _something _out of her father; even something as irrelevant as a tiny muscle spasm felt like a victory to her after two long years of nothing_._


	31. Fixed

**Author's Note: ****If you haven't read #15 – The Escape, this one isn't going to make much sense. Basically, Marco got caught halfway into hammerhead morph in the school pool by two bullies. This is based on one of those bullies' experience. Enjoy, and as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!**

_#31 – Fixed_

Drake sat down in the upholstered chair across the desk from the therapist and wondered how the hell this had happened. A week ago, he'd been fine.

The therapist, an older, balding man, smiled kindly at him. "It's nice to meet you, Drake. My name is Dr. Faber. Why don't you start with telling me why you're here?"

Good question. It was because he'd opened his big mouth to his parents and actually told them the truth when they asked what was the matter with him. To Dr. Faber, he said, "Well, my dad says I'm here to get fixed."

Dr. Faber didn't lose the smile, but his eyes changed. They didn't physically change, of course…but it was enough to remind him of Marco. Drake swallowed hard as the doctor said, "Okay. Well, that's one way of putting therapy. What is broken with you that needs to be fixed?"

Drake felt the old, familiar frustration at not being able to express himself properly, but he tried anyway. "Nothing's wrong with _me_, that's why this is unfair. Me and Woo were just trying to have fun with the punk, and he's the one who got…weird."

"What punk, Drake?"

Drake launched into his tale, hesitant at first, then getting more comfortable as the story came out. About how he and Woo had just been trying to mess with Marco. How they were just teasing him, and how he…changed. Drake felt relieved as he was able to describe the flat, black look Marco's eyes had taken on. About how his teeth had been way too large, and _sharp_ – only for a minute, but it had happened. It had affected his speech, for God's sake. How Jake had come into the pool area and called Marco off like he was some kind of attack dog. And his legs – don't forget the legs. At first, Drake had thought Marco's feet touching the bottom of the twelve foot pool had been a distortion, but he had had time to think about that. He grew up in the pool, and he knew water as well as anything. He knew the distortions it could make, and making someone's legs appear roughly eight feet longer than they were was not one of those things.

Dr. Faber nodded and "mmhmm'ed" the whole time, scribbling a note here and there on his legal pad. As the story wound down, Drake eyeballed that legal pad suspiciously. "You know I'm not making this up, right?" he demanded. "I mean, I'm not looking for attention. I don't even want to be here. There's no reason for me to make this up."

"I believe that you saw something," Dr. Faber said, and Drake relaxed. "I'm interested in what you think caused Marco's…transformation."

"I don't know!" Drake said angrily. "That's why I'm here! If I could explain it, I wouldn't be losing sleep over it! _You're _supposed to be the smart one!"

Dr. Faber didn't react in any noticeable way to the outburst. "It's very important that you tell me how you have tried to rationalize what you saw."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Surely you've tried to explain it to yourself. I can't begin to help you until I can get a grasp on your thought process. It doesn't matter if what you've come up with makes sense or not. How have you tried to explain what you saw happen to Marco?"

Drake considered. He'd never had a big imagination, and only a couple of things had even seemed plausible for a minute. "Well," he said reluctantly, "I saw a movie once where a demon possessed a girl. Marco's thing wasn't quite like that, but the eyes…the black eyes, like holes. That was almost the same." Dr. Faber scribbled on his pad, and Drake quickly added, "I know that's stupid, though. Demons aren't real."

"On the contrary, demons are _very _real to some people," Dr. Faber corrected him. The corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile. "Demons are prevalent throughout the Bible and all through human history. Whether or not they're physically real, they are very real to a lot of people."

"Not to me," Drake said defiantly. "I _know _Marco's not a demon. Or a mutant. Or anything else I came up with. It just flat doesn't make sense, and it's driving me crazy."

"What about an alien?" Dr. Faber asked quietly. Drake laughed, then realized the doctor was completely serious.

"Don't be stupid. I'd sooner believe in demons than aliens."

Dr. Faber chewed his pen for a moment, then pulled a small yellow pad out of his desk drawer. He scribbled quickly on it. He handed Drake the piece of paper, which said, "Seroquel 200mg, 90, 30 day."

"You're giving me crazy pills?" Drake demanded, feeling betrayed by the smiling doctor. "You said you believed that I saw something wrong with Marco!"

"They're not crazy pills, and I _do _believe you saw something. I just don't know if what you saw actually happened, Drake. I believe you really saw Marco's teeth large and sharp, and his legs nine feet long, and his eyes totally black. But honestly, Drake, if you were in my shoes...what would you be thinking?"

"That it didn't really happen," he exhaled, all of his defiance leaking out of him. For the first time, he actually considered the possibility that he was crazy.

"You have a check-up with me in two weeks," Dr. Faber said. "Take those pills like you're supposed to, and we'll talk about what they're doing and what they're not doing. You may not have to take them anymore after that. But for now, we're going to try them out." He reached into his desk and pulled out a pamphlet and handed it to Drake. "As part of your treatment, I also want you to go and attend a meeting here. We may find that while you don't need the pills, a healthy support system could do you a lot of good."

"The Sharing?" Drake read the front of the leaflet. "Aw, Doc, this is for dorks!"

Dr. Faber's expression hardened. "I can't make you go, of course. But I will say this – if you choose not to explore that avenue, I'll be forced to rely solely on medication. Going to The Sharing could mean less pills. Maybe no pills at all. It's completely up to you."

Drake thought about what his father would say when he learned his son was taking crazy medication. What his friends would say when he had to go to the school nurse every day after third period to take his daily pills. "All right, I'll go."

Dr. Faber smiled, and though his teeth were completely normal, it reminded Drake of Marco's devilish smile in the pool. "You'll like it. I promise."


	32. Inside

_#32 – Inside_

Peter adjusted his tie self-consciously in the wavy reflection of the stainless steel elevator doors. It didn't look right to him, but he chalked that up to the fact he hadn't worn one in a long time. He gave himself a little mental pep-talk as the numbers on the elevator lit up in sequence. _Be honest. Be humble, but assertive. Let Davidson know what you want, but let him know what he's going to get out of it in return._

The number stayed lit at 40, and the doors dinged open. He was immediately assaulted by the racket which could only be fifty keyboards being worked at the same time. He wound down the familiar path between the cubicles toward the boss' office, forcing himself to stay loose and relaxed. Easier said than done – Peter was generally a proud man, even though he hadn't had much to be proud of over the last year or so. He reached the mahogany door at the back of the large, open workspace and knocked three times.

"Come in," the oddly feminine voice called from behind it, and Peter did. He stifled the smile that always threatened to rise on his face when he saw the bear of a man to which the womanly voice belonged. He crossed quickly to the desk to shake Davidson's hand, and took it as a good sign that Davidson both rose out of his chair and smiled as they shook. "Peter, it's good to see you. I'm glad you called to meet with me." He gestured at the chair opposite his, and Peter took it.

"I'm glad you feel that way, sir. I decided it was time to move on, and seeing about getting the best job I ever had back was first on the list."

Davidson's smile grew even wider. "You really came in guns blazing, huh Pete? Flattery, and right off the top. I like it."

Peter smiled back. "I guess you know why I'm here. No need to mince words. I'm really sorry about the way I left, and I want my old job back. If you'd have me, I'll take whatever position you have available and work my way back up."

Davidson waved the comment away. "I'm not going to keep you in suspense. I'd be happy to have you back, Peter. We had a hard time filling your spot to begin with, and the guy doing your old job now isn't anywhere near as good at it as you were." The smile faded and he leaned forward slightly. "We have to get serious about a couple of things, though. I need to know – _know _– that if I bump that guy back down and give you his spot, you're not going to…relapse. I can't be left stranded again, Peter. Not for the same thing, twice."

Peter struggled to find the right words for a short moment. "I can promise you that it won't happen again. I won't lie and say I'm over it, but I'm over it enough to see what I need to do. Eva's gone, there's nothing I can do about it. But Marco is still here, and he needs a dad with a stable job. If you don't trust that I'm mentally stable again, you can trust that, sir. I'll be reliable for you because I have to be reliable for him."

Davidson's stern expression relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair a little. It gave a protesting squeak at the abuse the huge man was putting on it, and Peter once again tried not to smile. "I believe you," he told Peter frankly. "I'm going to take a gamble and put you back at your old data supervisor position. Don't let me down."

Davidson's declaration sounded official enough to make Peter breathe an internal sigh of relief. "I won't, Mr. Davidson. You have my word."

Davidson nodded and unexpectedly smiled again. "How's Marco doing?"

"He seems to be all right. He's not home much, but a lot of that's probably my fault."

Davidson continued to smile. "You know I liked that kid right from the start. Remember the company picnic two years ago?"

Peter finally allowed himself to grin as he remembered the outing Davidson was talking about. Davidson had gotten drunk within the first hour of the picnic, and everyone had avoided him. Everyone except for Marco. Marco had spent two full hours joking around with Peter's boss, never realizing that the man he was telling crude jokes to was in charge of his dad's financial fate. Davidson had genuinely taken a shine to him, though, and Peter left the picnic with his job more secure than it had ever been. "I remember. Marco's…a handful. And he's got no filter between brain and mouth. Sorry if he bothered you." Peter played his part of the dad not quite sure about his son's antics to a tee, and got the reaction he wanted.

"Nonsense!" Davidson squeaked. "That kid has got the personality. I'll be happy to give him a job in Public Relations when he's old enough – if there's anybody who can soften up those tightwad financialists and investors, its Marco. I really like that kid," he said again. "Anyway, is next Monday too early to start you back, Peter?"

"Not a bit. I'll be here bright and early. Thank you again for the opportunity."

Davidson continued to grin. "And let Marco play hooky and bring him in one day, huh? I wouldn't mind hanging out with him again."

Peter rolled his eyes internally, but said, "I'll do that, sir. Count on it."

Davidson stood again, a clear sign that the meeting was over. He reached out and shook Peter's hand enthusiastically. "Good to have you back, Pete. Welcome back to the inside. See you Monday."

**A/N – **For everybody reading that's familiar with my stuff, you'll notice I've been a lot better when it comes to complaining about crappy reviewership. Gotta say something now, though…fifty-nine individual, signed-in readers on the last chapter with one person reviewing? Man…that's really low. Help Sweetbriar out, huh? Thanks.


	33. Water

**Author's Note****: ** This one takes place after _#25 – The Extreme. _That was the first time the Chee had to take the Animorphs' place during a long-term mission, I believe.

_#33 – Water_

**Rachel**

The first thing I did when I got home from the North Pole was meet with the Chee who'd been taking my place at home while I was gone. She handed me the clothes which she'd been "wearing" – which meant she'd been projecting them in her hologram. I put them on gratefully, even though I planned to get them off almost immediately. More clothing would always mean better from that point forward, in my eyes.

"Anything I should know before I go inside?" I asked the Chee, jerking my head toward the house. "Is my mom suspicious?"

The Chee stared at me blankly with her hologram's human female face. "Suspicious? Of course not."

"Okay. Well, thanks," I told her. She made her hologram smile, then walked away without a word. "Oookay."

I walked in through the back, hoping my mom wouldn't be in the kitchen. She was, of course – looked like she was chopping veggies for dinner. "Hey mom," I said to her back.

"Uh, hi Rachel. Again." She didn't turn around, but I could hear the eye-roll in her voice. I swear I could. I almost slapped my forehead as I remembered that "I" had just walked past her into the backyard less than two minutes ago. I almost asked her what was for dinner before I realized that Chee-me had probably already asked.

"Do I have time to take a shower before dinner?" I asked instead.

My mom turned around to look at me sideways. "Dinner is still in an hour. Unless you plan on taking longer than that, then you have time."

"I'll try to be through by then," I said, trying to joke and hearing it come out way too serious. I gave up the acting-normal charade and headed up the stairs.

I cut the shower on full hot and stripped. The steam started flowing over the top of the shower curtain after a moment, and I swear I almost started salivating. Marco had spent the last day going on and on about a hot shower, and I'll be damned if he didn't get me craving one, too. The water burned my skin as I stepped in, but I let it. I didn't shy away or turn the heat down; I actually leaned into it. I was too amazed at the prospect of water being water instead of ice to do anything else.

Heat is like a foreign concept, once you've gone without it for a little while. When you're truly freezing with no way to get warm, it's amazing how fast your mind forgets about warmth. You remember what it is, of course, that's not what I mean. But you forget what it feels like on your skin, inside of your body, almost immediately. I guess it's some sort of defense mechanism your body has against letting extreme cold break you mentally.

Whatever. Didn't matter. I was warm, now; my skin drank in the temperature. My muscles relaxed. My mind rested. It was bliss.

Well, it was bliss until the water ran first tepid, then cool. I cut it off and stepped out, drying off with my big, fluffy towel. I hustled to my room and put on my winter pajamas, even though it was probably seventy degrees outside and my mom had all of the windows in the house open. I walked slowly down the stairs, just happy to be alive and warm again. Sara was playing with a stuffed dinosaur on the bottom step, and I rubbed her hair as I walked by, smiling.

"You're weird," Sara accused.

I didn't even lose my smile as I instinctively shot back, "Your _face _is weird, Scare-ah." I rounded the corner into the kitchen to find my mom glaring at me with her hand on her hip. "What?" I asked, confused.

"You have been nothing but sweet to your sisters and I for the last four days. I thought it was here to stay. Why do you have to go back to the old Rachel?"

"The "old Rachel?" What are you talking about?" I realized that my Chee counterpart must have been playing the part of perfect daughter too well and I rolled my eyes. "So I'm perfectly nice for a few days, big deal. So I say one little thing to Sara – even bigger deal."

My mom rolled her own eyes and went back to stirring her sauce. "And the smart mouth is back, too. I really thought you'd changed. Stupid me."

"Guess so," I laughed, too relaxed to be worried about my mom's dramatic behavior. "I'm going to watch some tube. Call me for dinner? _Please?_" Maybe I was a little sarcastic with the "please," but sue me. I'd had a rough couple of days.

Besides, the sooner I got everybody used to actual Rachel instead of perfect Chee-Rachel again, the better.

**A/N – **Apparently the A/N on the last chapter had absolutely no effect. Almost fifty people have read it in the twenty-four hours it's been up, and once again, Sweetbriar was the only one to leave her thoughts. Thank you, Sweetbriar. I'm not complaining, by the way…I'm far too used to it out of the people on this site for that. Just letting you guys know that if I stop putting effort into this one for a while, that's why.


	34. Triangle

_#34 - Triangle_

**Excerpt from the **_**Santa Barbara Times:**_

_**Santa Barbara the New Bermuda Triangle**_

_By Stephen Wilson_

Airplanes aren't crashing; compasses still generally point north. But there have been some strange developments in our sleepy California town that have the writer of this editorial worried.

Calling out specific individuals is not the intent of this editorial; as such, this writer has not contacted any government officials for quotes or responses. Answers have been sought before, with no straight ones being found. On the surface, everything is normal in Santa Barbara.

But what about under the surface?

Subtle policy changes in local government are no longer ignorable. They seem to be rational choices, and the vast majority of them do not affect day to day life. But there have been seventy-seven amendments and additions to local law in the past two years alone. For reference, in the sixty year period preceding this age of sudden change, there were only two amendments and three additions. They seem like innocent, bureaucratic modifications, but when one looks closer, the questions form. Why should the weight of jurisdiction have been shifted away from state police and into the hands of local police, especially on matters concerning missing persons? Has the local police department decided they are better equipped to find missing people? They aren't. So why would the new and amended laws give them power over the state police, who are historically several times more effective at solving kidnappings and runaways? And who in our local government supported this sudden change? These questions have, as of yet, gone unanswered.

This writer may not have even stumbled upon the shift of jurisdictional powers in such matters if not for one undeniable fact: the people of Santa Barbara and its surrounding areas are going missing at an alarming rate. In the past year, missing people reports are up 950%. That is not a misprint. _950%. _No official comment or speculation is being offered by the local police; as a matter of fact, unnamed sources in the department sounded exceedingly unworried when questioned about it. There are over a hundred active investigations into person disappearances on the books as this editorial is being written, but the department has no comment on the matter. When asked about progress or success in any of the open cases, an anonymous source in the department told this reporter, "If we find any of them, you'll be the first to know." The comment implies that out of over one hundred missing people, not a single one has been found.

Not all of these people are transients or teenagers, either. People with good jobs and families have gone missing. Robert Benning, a private detective out of Tempe, Arizona, has set up a makeshift office in the Best Western hotel on State Street. He is diligently working on six missing person cases, independent of the SBPD. When asked about the details of his investigations, he scratched his head and said, "It's definitely the toughest bunch of cases I've ever worked. Usually, people leave a trail when they go somewhere, whether it's by choice or by force. A paper trail, a physical trail, even a trail of witnesses. Nobody just disappears, but that's exactly what the people of Santa Barbara seem to be doing – disappearing without a trace. It's baffling, but I'm not giving up. Not by a long shot. If I can find one of them, I might be able to figure out what happened to the rest of them."

There have also been strange, unexplained sightings in the town. Reports of strange lights in the night sky and unidentified creatures in and around Santa Barbara have all been filed. Strangely enough, none of the citizens making these reports were able to be contacted for comment.

All of these bizarre and puzzling recent developments have this reporter acutely worried. Keep an eye on your loved ones, and be wary of strange or disturbing things. This editorial will probably be dismissed by many as the ramblings of a paranoid man, and those people are possibly right. But, on the other hand, it is almost impossible to deny that something is not right in Santa Barbara. It may not be anything sinister. But the evidence supports the idea that sleepy Santa Barbara is not sleepy anymore. There is an air of tension in the once-relaxed seaside town. At some point, its citizens are going to have to take notice and do something to protect themselves from an unseen, potential threat.

Santa Barbarians are disappearing every day – that is fact. These people come from all backgrounds and demographics. Seemingly, no one is immune. You are urged to be vigilant, so that you don't wind up one of the statistics.

**Excerpt from the **_**Santa Barbara Times**_**, one week after the running of **_**Santa Barbara the New Bermuda Triangle:**_

_**Times Staff Writer Among Missing**_

_By Patricia Clark_

_Santa Barbara Times _staff writer Stephen Wilson has been officially reported missing as of 9:00PM yesterday.

Yvette Collins, Wilson's long-time girlfriend, reported him as a missing person to the SBPD at mid-week. "They told me he was probably just working a story," Yvette claimed. "I told them I'd been in touch with his editor at the _Times_, who assured me he wasn't on a job and hadn't been seen for twenty-four hours. The officer who took my call said, "Maybe he went out on his own to find some of the missing people he keeps writing about." I didn't know what to say to that, other than Steve wouldn't do that. The officer then told me he hadn't been missing long enough to make a report, told me to wait a while, and hung up."

Miss Collins story is similar to other key accounts given of dealing with the SBPD in relation to missing person cases. Police Chief Albertson was asked about the seeming lack of concern by his department on the matter, to which he responded, "My staff is dealing with an inordinate amount of missing people. They've all received sensitivity training, but you can imagine how such a large workload could desensitize a person." When asked about why his understaffed department was shouldering the burden of the missing people cases without the assistance of state agencies, he replied, "No comment."

Anyone with information on the whereabouts of Stephen Wilson is urged to call the _Santa Barbara Times_ as well as the police.

**Author's Note**: A sincere thank you to everyone who reviewed the last few entries! I greatly appreciate all feedback, and feel free to offer constructive criticism as well as compliments! Thank you again!


	35. Wrong

_#35 – Wrong_

**Excerpt from the Santa Barbara Times:**

_**Santa Barbara Police Department On Top of Things**_

_By Benjamin Jarvis, ed._

The people of Santa Barbara can rest easy: their police department is on the case, and they're doing a fine job.

Last week, Staff Writer Stephen Wilson was reported missing both to the police and to the public via this very publication. In the time since, Wilson has been found alive and unharmed, and has been subsequently fired by the _Santa Barbara Times_. He also faces possible criminal charges, after his mental state has been evaluated.

Wilson was brought in to the SBPD's headquarters by a detective who'd located him in a hotel in Montecito. Once there, he began to rave about being abducted by armed men and held against his will. The SBPD detective responsible for finding Wilson did so by tracking Wilson's own credit cards. There is video evidence of him checking in to the hotel alone, and no evidence of foul play was found.

It is the opinion of many that Wilson was trying to raise the profile of his investigative article by disappearing. The police are not certain of any criminal or corrupt intent; they are considering the possibility that Wilson is simply mentally unstable. He is undergoing evaluation at the Santa Barbara Mental Health Center. Criminal charges may or may not be filed, based upon their findings.

Whatever the reason for his behavior, Wilson is alive and unharmed. His speedy recovery by Detective James of the SBPD is both encouraging and comforting. "Most of the people on our missing person list have just skipped town without telling anyone – we're 99% sure of that," James said. "The fact that we were able to locate and recover Mr. Wilson demonstrates this department's ability to find missing people. Now we ask the citizens of Santa Barbara to sit back and let us do our jobs."

We at the _Times _apologize for any unrest Wilson's editorial may have caused. This editor personally apologizes for allowing such an editorial to be published when the writer was in such an obvious mentally unstable state. We at the _Times _strive to report unbiased and accurate news, and I fear we have failed the people of Santa Barbara in this matter. We urge you to continue to trust us, just as you should trust the Santa Barbara Police Department.

**A/N – **I don't know if I'm just obvious or if it just shows that we Animorphs fans just think along the same lines, but I'd like to tip my hat to Chiro Jones on clipping me to the punchbowl on this one. I got your suggestion as I was writing this piece, Chiro, and I laughed out loud at how closely you called my next move. The last sentence of this one was purely inspired by your suggestion, so thanks! And thanks for reviewing, everybody who did/will!


	36. Choices

_#36 – Choices_

**Marco**

In the end, I lost. I lost by approximately two feet, or a quarter of a second. Couldn't have possibly been any closer…but I lost. And a bet's a bet.

I'll give you the short version of what happened. Jake had to go out of town with his folks for the weekend. The other five of us met at the barn on Sunday afternoon, just to make sure everything was cool before Jake got home on Monday morning. You know, to make sure we had our stuff together, so Jake wouldn't freak out that the world would fall apart with him gone for two days.

The meeting started off fine. Nobody was arguing. I made one little comment about being the best morpher beside Cassie, and Rachel took exception to it. She made me a challenge – a "morphing triathlon."

"We sprint as humans from here to the woods," she'd proposed, looking so cocky it was almost comical. "Once we hit the tree line, we morph wolf. In wolf morph, we race to the stream by Ax's scoop. Once we touch water, we demorph and morph birds of prey. Then it's an aerial sprint back to the barn. The first one through the loft is the winner."

"Oh, you're so on," I'd said. My osprey morph was way faster than her big, clunky bald eagle. "What do you say…twenty bucks to the winner?"

She'd pondered that for a minute. "Nah, no money. There's got to be more at stake than that. I want to make sure I get your very best."

I'd grinned and shot a glance at Tobias, who was perched in the barn loft and watching us intently. "All right. If I win, you have to make out with me for thirty seconds. And you have to pretend to enjoy it."

Rachel shuddered and grimaced…but it was put-on. I think. "Fine," she agreed. "But if _I _win, you have to wear my Rob Thomas shirt to school on Monday and wear it all day. No jacket, nothing to cover it up. Do we have a deal?"

I knew the shirt she was talking about. It was a skin-tight, hot pink t-shirt cut for girls. No way I'd ever be able to live that down…but there was no way I could lose this race. "You're on."

Monday morning rolled around, and I was one of the first stops for the bus to school. It was pretty much empty when I got on. The bus driver gave me a look as I tried not to look self-conscious in the girl's shirt as I boarded the bus. The two girls already on the bus woke up all the way in order to laugh hysterically. I sighed, took my seat at the back, and prepared myself for a day full of stuff like that.

I was almost desensitized to the smart-assed comments and giggles and stares by the time the bus got to Jake's stop. He sleepily trudged to the back of the bus to take his usual seat beside me, but stopped short of sitting down when he saw what I was wearing. He stared for a moment before rolling his eyes and saying, "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not," I replied moodily. "Bet with Rachel." That should have been all the explanation he needed.

He nodded, like he'd been expecting something of this magnitude or worse while he was away. "You have to wear that God-awful thing all day?" he asked, almost sympathetically.

"All day," I confirmed glumly.

He glanced around, and took a seat two rows up from me. He looked back and shrugged apologetically, like not sitting with me wasn't even his decision to make. Like it was a no-brainer.

I didn't hold it against him. I wouldn't have sat with him, either, if the situation were reversed. I just sighed heavily and said, "Sometimes I really, really regret the choices I make in my life."


	37. Spirit

_#37 – Spirit_

**Ax**

I have been wrong before, but never so drastically as my misjudgment of a human being's ability to fight.

From the first time I morphed a human, I held it in disdain. A bipedal design without even a tail for balance? Ridiculous concept. Two forward-facing eyes? Disadvantageous, to say the least. I have experienced the rush of adrenaline, and I understand the fight or flight response.

Secretly, I had always assumed the human body had far more flight than fight in it.

I tried to keep my opinions to myself, lest I offend my human friends. I may have failed a little in this regard, based on what Marco said to me when he came to my scoop one evening.

He and Prince Jake arrived at my scoop as the sun was going down. I patiently waited for them to demorph, feeling the familiar anxiety of knowing a conflict was probable in the near future. Once they were finished, I said, (What is up, Prince Jake?) This is the human way of requesting the specifics of the situation.

Prince Jake cocked his thumb at Marco, indicating that he would defer to his second in command. Marco showed his teeth in a human smile. "We're all sort of tired of hearing you talk about how inferior the human body is to your almighty Andalite body. There's nothing going on tonight, so I figured we'd bring you to a fight."

(A fight?) I asked, confused. (Is this another of your human wars? I do not wish to see humans kill each other.)

Prince Jake and Marco laughed. Prince Jake said, "No, a fight. Two guys in a ring. Punches, kicks, grappling. One human fighter trying to win out over another."

Marco chimed in. "Mixed martial arts, dude. Rage in the cage. Blood on the mat. It's going to be intense. My dad got three tickets for himself, me, and Jake, but he has to work. Third ticket's got your name on it, Ax-man. Let's go."

I had no idea what they were talking about, but they both seemed excited, yet relaxed. This is the way humans act when they are anticipating something fun. I morphed to human and followed them out of the woods, out past Cassie's farm. We then rode a transport called a bus to a large, indoor arena. Once inside, I demorphed and morphed back to human in a bathroom stall while Prince Jake and Marco stood guard. I then let them lead me to a specific row of seats, as specified on the paper stubs called tickets.

Once seated, I watched with interest as the humans milled around the obvious focal point of the event – it was indeed a cage, but without a top. I knew from experience at Cassie's barn that humans keep animals in cages, but this cage was much larger than any I had seen there. "Prince Jake, will the beast they put in that cage be able to escape? There is no lid."

"That's where the fight will happen," Prince Jake said, which reminded me why we had come in the first place.

"Two humans will fight?" I asked. "Each other?" I clarified.

"Yeah, they're going to fight, all right," Marco said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as the lights dimmed and the crowd cheered.

"Why?" I asked.

"Combat prowess. To prove who the better fighter is. Entertainment." Marco listed reasons as he looked at me. "Your people never fight?"

"We fight," I said. "But it is mostly for training purposes. A few subcultures on the home world fight for entertainment, but it is generally looked down upon." I watched as two humans made their way into the cage. "But we fight with tail blades. Blay-duhs. Those humans have no weapons."

"Sure they do," Jake grinned, and held up his hands in fists.

I saw that the two fighting humans had coverings on their hands. "Oh! Are those hand coverings weapons? Are they electrified, perhaps? Or are they made of something heavy?"

Marco laughed. "No, dude, those gloves are only there to keep them from breaking their hands on the other guy's face. Just watch, you'll understand."

I did as he asked. I watched the fighters staring at each other, pacing on opposite sides of the cage. I noticed that these two humans were both male, and they were more heavily muscled than most humans. Even though they only had two legs, they somehow moved more gracefully than I could in my own human morph. They carried themselves more confidently. The way they walked reminded me of Rachel.

A bell rang somewhere, and it was apparently the signal for the two humans to engage each other. I watched intently as they came into range of each other. The first thing that happened was amazing.

One of them threw a kick. He kept his balance on one leg, and tossed his other leg in a wide, sharp arc toward the forward-facing leg of his opponent. It made contact with impressive velocity; a loud _smack _reverberated throughout the arena. Even more impressive was that the human absorbed the blow that would have damaged any Andalite leg; not only did he absorb it, but he pistoned his fist forward at the other human and struck his head. The human who had been "punched" stumbled, but did not fall down.

The fight continued with an astonishing display of strikes using only the limbs. Not only did they hit each other with their hands and feet, but they utilized elbow strikes and knee strikes, as well. At one point, the two humans were rolling around on the ground together. There were what Marco called "submission attempts;" they looked to be creative ways to cause pain or injury by manipulating the other fighter's limbs. The fight finally ended with one fighter lying on the other's back and wrapping his arm around his neck tightly, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to his brain. "He will kill him, now," I muttered, waiting for the inevitable, brutal end.

Just as I said that, the fighter being choked patted the fighter choking him rapidly and lightly on the leg. I thought it was a feeble attempt to cause damage, but the choker let him go immediately and the crowd cheered. "They do not fight to the death?" I asked. Marco and Prince Jake laughed, then acted shocked when they saw I was serious.

The most amazing part was the end, after one fighter had been declared victorious. The two fighters met in the center of the ring and embraced, showing affection in the human way. "I thought they were enemies?" I asked, confused. "Why would they do that?"

"They're not enemies," Prince Jake said. "The fight is for sport. It's just a proving ground. Those guys respect each other, and they're just showing it." The two fighters made way for the next two, and I watched with great interest.

The physical human fighting ability is both surprising and impressive. But the fighting spirit, the fact that they will fight so hard for something as minor as a sporting contest…well, it is beyond impressive. It is enough to make me believe that my human friends are correct when they say that the Yeerks picked the wrong planet to invade.


	38. Never

_#38 – Never_

Sara was playing in the sandbox one beautiful afternoon in November. She had dutifully put on her jacket before going to play outside, but she'd shed it and tossed it aside after five minutes in the warm sun. She heard the creak of the door set into the privacy fence and looked up to see her oldest sister making her way toward the back door of the house.

"Rachel, play with me!" Sara whined/commanded. It was more out of habit than anything else; Sara didn't expect Rachel to do anything of the sort. It had been a couple of years at least since Rachel had paid her more than a token bit of attention. Now that Jordan was in middle school, Sara was left to fend for herself in the playtime department.

To Sara's surprise, Rachel stopped and looked at her. She looked frazzled for a moment, wearing the same expression her mother wore when it was "busytime at work." After a moment, Rachel unexpectedly smiled and walked over to the sandbox. "Hey, kiddo," Rachel cuffed her lightly on the top of the head. "What do you want to play?"

"For serious?" Sara asked her suspiciously. Rachel laughed.

"For serious. Want to play dolls? Or how about a tea party?"

"Tea party!" Sara agreed excitedly. In the back of her mind, she still knew it could be a trick…but she was prepared to suffer the consequences. She was too excited at the prospect of Rachel actually playing with her to care. "My table is over there!"

Rachel allowed Sara to take her hand and skip to the corner of the yard where the little plastic table was set up. She started setting the places with the plastic saucers and cups, and Rachel unexpectedly grabbed her hand. "Don't touch that, Sara! There's a spider." Sara looked, and sure enough, there was a fat brown spider in one of her teacups.

"Gross," Sara said. In her mind, the tea party was ruined. The stupid spider had ruined her one chance to play with Rachel. She started to cry; she didn't bawl, but two fat tears ran down her face and her lower lip trembled.

Rachel laughed and hugged her tightly. "Don't cry! It's all right!"

"It's not fair…I wanted to play tea party with you, and...and…"

"Well, we'll just have to have a _real _tea party," Rachel said, smiling kindly. Still holding Sara's hand, she led her to the back door and into the kitchen. Sara watched, fascinated, as Rachel opened up the Never-Touch Cupboard and set two places at the table with saucers, silver spoons, and fragile china tea cups.

Sara didn't want to say anything to stop this unexpected, fun development, but Rachel was being so nice, and she didn't want her to get in trouble. "We can play dolls," Sara offered reluctantly. "Mom'll be mad if we use her special cups."

"Well, then she'll just have to be mad," Rachel said as she set the kettle on the stove. She winked at Sara conspiratorially and added, "But I won't tell if you won't."

"I won't!" Sara agreed at once, and climbed into her chair at the kitchen table. She waited patiently for the water to boil, and watched as Rachel added tea to the serving kettle. "We're going to have real tea?" she asked doubtfully. "Mom doesn't let me. She says it has too much car-fiend."

"Caffeine," Rachel corrected as she poured them both a cup. "But I think ten years old is old enough for a little caffeine."

Though she would have liked to take credit for this advanced age, she corrected, "I'm only nine and a half."

Rachel just laughed and said, "Close enough." She scooped a lot of sugar into Sara's tea and a little into her own, and Sara followed her lead, blowing on the steaming beverage. Rachel went to the freezer, coming back to drop an ice cube in Sara's cup. Sara thought that was treating her like a kid, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to ruin it.

"Now," Rachel said. "Tell me what's up."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, a little suspicious. She'd worried about a catch to this out of character moment, and she could feel it coming on.

"What's up with you? How's school? Do you have a boyfriend?"

"A boyfriend? No way, gross!" Sara giggled. Rachel grinned.

"All right, maybe you're a little young for that. What about school? Are you getting good grades?"

"Yes," Sara replied dutifully in between blowing puffs on her tea. "I had a science project last week and I got an A."

"Good!" Rachel encouraged. She took a small sip of tea, winking as she stuck her pinky out away from the handle. Sara giggled again and copied her.

Rachel's face went blank and her eyes wandered out through the kitchen window, and for some reason this seemed to remind Sara how unusual this was. Without meaning to ask, she blurted out, "Rachel, why are you being so nice?"

A sad look crossed her sister's face, but she quickly killed it with a forced smile. "Because you'll never be nine and a half again. Now, what about your teacher? Do you like your teacher?"


	39. Heart

**Author's Note: ** Just want to remind everybody that I acknowledge my pop culture timeline is sometimes off. More often than not, it's on purpose. Trying to fit everything into the late 90s timeline while still keeping these fics relevant fifteen years later is sometimes impossible. It's basically the only thing I ever knowingly break canon for, and I apologize if it bothers you.

_#39 – Heart_

**Jake**

Home is where the heart is.

I don't know who said that, but I do know they were wrong. Granted, I'm sure it was said in a time before the Yeerks came and made everything so damn complicated.

My heart is with my family. It was at the beginning, it is now, and it will be after it's all over. Doesn't change the fact that home is not my home, if that makes any sense. Sometimes I can live with it. But after an especially tough battle that makes me want to give up, there's nothing worse than having to retreat to a mockery of my home.

Home is supposed to be a safe haven. Somewhere to let my guard down, recharge the old Duracells. Get ready for the next one. I don't have that luxury. I walk into my house knowing that one of my enemies is sitting at the kitchen table, or watching my parents' TV, or talking on the phone to one of his Yeerk buddies while pretending to be normal. I know that one slip, one wrong word, one wrong _look_, could doom me. That's not the worst part; if that was the only consequence, I probably would have let go already. But it would also doom my friends. It would be the end of my mom and dad, if they're not slaves already. I don't think they are, but there's no way to be sure. It would mean the death or enslavement of everyone I've never met – the Prime Minister of England on down to the lowest beggar on the streets of Kabul are counting on me not to slip, and they don't even know it.

Dorothy said it better: there's no place like home. While she meant it in a completely different way, it applies to me. There's no place on Earth that makes me feel like my home. It's where I can be the most at ease, even if that's not very easy. Usually, I'm constantly paying attention to what Tom is doing. To what my parents are saying, listening for a slip of their own. Anything that tells me that there's more than one confirmed enemy sharing a living space with me.

Rarely, I can relax. Sometimes, I can slip on my headphones, zone out while looking at my computer, and imagine I'm someone else. That I'm somewhere else, somewhere truly safe. I can imagine that none of this is happening. It's rare, but it happens. I'm always brought crashing back to reality by something, though. Something as innocent as my mom telling me I have a dentist appointment shoots me right back into Animorph mode. I start thinking about ways to get out of it. What if he decides my wisdom teeth are getting too close to the gumline and wants to take them out? That would mean general anesthesia, and I simply can't let that happen. No telling what I might say to the dentist while I was under, and there's no telling if my dentist is really my dentist anymore.

This is the sort of thing I have to think about, worry about. This is what my life has become. And that's why I think I like Fall Out Boy's take on the relationship between heart and home best.

If home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked.


	40. Watch

_#40 – Watch_

**Rachel**

It's not very often I find myself alone.

You might think I would hate being alone, after all of the terrible things I've done and seen. You might think that I would need comfort instead of time to myself to think.

Nah.

I got home from school on Friday and read my mom's note. Jordan was at a Cotillion dance class, Sara was staying the night at a friend's house, and my mom was "just running back to the office for a couple of quick, last minute things." I knew from experience that a "few quick things" would keep my mom out until well after dark, and I was cool with that. I'd been wanting some time to listen to my new CD, and the empty house meant I'd be able to jam it as loud as I wanted.

I tore the shrink wrap off of my CD and read the back while the sound system loaded the disc. It came on, starting strong with some fast, hard guitar riffs, and the lead singer cut in with his awesome vocals. I smiled as I sat back on the couch. I was smiling because Marco would crap if he knew I was into some of the same bands as him; it was more fun to let him believe that I was a boy-band-and-pop kind of girl. It would make it that much better when I schooled him about a real band.

Before the first song even had a chance to finish, the doorbell rang. I groaned, knowing it would be kind of hard to pretend like no one was home with the CD player blasting. I went into the kitchen and peeked out of the small window that sort of looked out onto the front porch. I could only see the back half of the woman at the door, but the hideous purple coat she was wearing was something I'd never seen before. My glance shifted to the street, where a strange PT Cruiser sat idling in the street in front of my house.

My brain noted these details all by itself. I was at Threat Level Yellow. I have a system of readiness, just like our government, and the clues I'd picked up from looking through the window had elevated it slightly. I wasn't exactly worried – if worse came to worst, I could definitely take a lone hefty woman in a terrible jacket. As the bell rang again, I headed to the door, deciding to get rid of her so I could pick my CD back up where I left off.

I opened the door and knew what this was all about at once – the literature she was holding had a picture of a suffering-but-benevolent Jesus on the front. "Hello, dear, how are you?" the woman asked, smiling and already pushing the brochures at me. I took them out of reflex.

"Hi. I don't want to be rude, but I'm really not interested," I said, trying not to sound like I wanted to haul off and hit the woman for interrupting my "me time."

"Most people aren't," the woman said, smiling in a way that made me _really _want to pop her one. "I'm not here for me, though, dear. I'm here for you. I'm here to help save your soul."

All of a sudden, I wanted to put this woman in her place. I wanted to tell her she might be fighting for my soul, but I was fighting for her to remain in control of her own body. Without knowing I was going to say it, I asked, "What church are you with?"

"The Kingdom of Jehovah, over on Westwood," she answered, looking surprised that all of a sudden, I was the one asking the questions.

"And does The Kingdom of Jehovah do any work with the community? Any work with an organization called The Sharing?"

The woman's lower lip twisted into an involuntary snarl. It had a tiny hair sticking out of it that glinted in the sun. "Absolutely not. They seem like their hearts are in the right place, but the devil is clever. He uses many snares in his attempt to win souls for Hell." She glanced around as if her fellow parishioners might have snuck up on her while she wasn't looking, and added conspiratorially, "They encourage _fornication. _My daughter told me they pass out contraceptives at some of their meetings!"

I snorted a laugh, unable to suppress the image of Visser Three passing out condoms to teenagers. The woman frowned at me and said, "If you're looking for something to fill a hole in your life, you won't find it at The Sharing. That hole you feel can only be filled by Jesus Christ. He's the only one who can make you complete and get you into Heaven." She reached out and tapped the brochure in my hand; I looked down and saw the words The Watchtower in bold. "That pamphlet will tell you all you need to know, dear. Please read it. It will tell you how Jesus died for your sins, and -"

My mouth again saying things my brain didn't tell it to say, I said, "Jesus died for _my _sins? That was nice of him. Not to mention presumptuous. What about the sins of other people? What about the sins committed against me and mine? Did Jesus do anything about _those?_" I was inexplicably furious, all of a sudden. I was aware I was taking it out on a harmless Bible-beater, but I couldn't help it.

"Jesus died for _everyone's _sins. Every man, woman, and child," she said gravely, in the no-room-for-questions voice of a fanatic.

"What about the sins of…people…not from around here? What if there were monsters out there, monsters that are not human, and they're sinning their asses off against people right now? What, if anything, is Jesus doing about _that?_"

She sketched a tiny sign of the cross when I said the word "ass," but other than that, she remained stoic and unfazed. "If you speak of demons, the minions of the devil, then you have to understand why they're here. Why God allows them to be here. They are only soldiers in a war – they're the devil's soldiers. They're here to tempt us, to hurt us, to do anything they can to make us turn away from God. They're here to make us give up. We have to ask for God's help to be stronger than they are."

She was talking about demons, but I was thinking about Yeerks. _Real _demons, complete with weapons, spacecraft, and the ability to steal _bodies_, never mind the soul. "I don't need God to fight them. I _am _stronger than they are, and I _will _win. I've been winning without God's help for a while now, and I'm going to go all the way." I shoved the brochures back at her, but she was too stunned at my sudden, hateful tirade to catch them. "You're spinning your wheels with me, lady. I'm a loner and a rebel. God might be rooting for me, but he's in the stands. I'm the one at the plate. So save that literature for somebody who cares." I shut the door gently in the stunned woman's face, already berating myself for letting something so minor get me so worked up. I pressed play on the remote and let the music fill the living room again, sunk into the couch, and tried to let the melodies wash away all conscious thought.


	41. Ephemeral

_#41 – Ephemeral_

**Jake**

I was sitting on the couch, enjoying an old cowboy movie and eating Doritos, when Tom came into the living room to ruin my very rare downtime.

"'Sup, Midget?" he asked, rudely reaching into the bag of chips on my lap and grabbing a handful.

"Trying to watch this," I stated the obvious.

"Well, I don't have anything going on this afternoon, and I was thinking about hitting a few balls at the batting cages. Want to go?"

A year ago, I would have been stoked to death. Tom acted like playing some one-on-one with me in the driveway was mild torture; him offering to take me along to the batting cages would have been a dream come true. Things were different now, though. I saw the offer for what it was – an attempt to get me alone so he could pressure me about The Sharing some more.

"I'm good," I said, trying very hard to focus on the movie and wishing him away.

"Come on, man, don't be like that," he said through a mouthful of Doritos. "I know we don't hang out like we used to, and I'm trying to fix that. Let's just go hit some balls, maybe grab an ice cream. My treat. Well, Mom's treat," he corrected himself.

"I said I'm good, Tom," I growled, trying not to get edgy and totally failing.

He gave me that trademarked big brother grin, the one that said 'I'm the boss, so why even fight it?' "There's no ulterior motive, dude. I'm not going to crawl up your butt about The Sharing. I just want to go and smack some balls. None of my friends can go…not to mention the fact that Mom'll fund this trip if I take you. So what do you say?"

"You've got Dorito on your lip," I said coldly, waiting for him to give up and go away. Before that could happen, he got an unexpected ally; my mom walked into the room and planted her right hand on her hip. I knew that pose. That pose meant she was about to lay down the law.

"Jake, go with your brother," she commanded. "He just said he wouldn't bother you about his club, which is the only thing you two ever fight about. Go and spend some time with your brother." She pushed a twenty dollar bill into Tom's outstretched hand.

"Mom, he's not going to honor that," I explained, trying to remain calm and logical. "Things will start out fine. We'll have a good time. He might wait until after the batting cages. He might even wait until after ice cream. But I guarantee you that before we pull back into this driveway, he will be hounding me about The Sharing."

"I won't," Tom said, but he had a teasing look in his eye. _Fingers crossed? _I thought sourly.

"He won't," my mom seconded. "Get off your butt, Jake. Go. Now." She left the room, having laid down her edict.

Tom crossed his arms and grinned, waiting. He'd won, and he knew it. _You won for now, _I thought, sighing and getting off of the couch. _But don't get used to it, Yeerk. It won't last._


	42. Spinning

_#42 – Spinning_

**Cassie**

Jake says I'm good at reading people, and I guess it's true. I mean, it's nothing special to me…I just pay attention, you know? I pick up on things other people miss. There's nothing supernatural about it. I'm not a mind-reader. I just pay attention, and I think about what the hints people drop mean.

I was sitting in my room, debating for the hundredth time if I could risk writing a journal about what was going on in my life. The answer, obviously, was no…even if they weren't controllers, my parents would flip out if they ever found it. At the very least, I'd be looking at some time in a psych ward. Writing down the things that go through my mind would be a potential atom bomb.

As I let my thoughts flow, they kept coming back to the same thing – Marco. I'm always worried about Marco – he acts like the least vulnerable, the one most able to deal with the things that we see and do. I've always known it's just a shield, and I've always known that one day, when that shield finally cracked, we were going to be dealing with a major meltdown.

Well, if there was ever a time for Marco's shield to break down, this would be it. He coped when his mom died, and he coped when he found out she was still alive and the slave of Visser One. He had that tiny hope to hold onto then, the hope of saving her. After the throwdown we'd just had with her and Visser Three, it looked like that hope was gone. She was almost certainly dead, and even if she wasn't, she was being hunted by the entire Yeerk Empire.

To say the situation looked grim would be the understatement of all time.

It was a Friday night, and I just wasn't going to be at ease until I made sure he was okay. I told my parents that a friend was having "parent issues," and that I wanted to go to them so they wouldn't be alone. They didn't question me further, they just asked if I needed a ride and told me to be careful when I said I didn't. They're really cool like that. They still trust me, somehow.

When I got to Marco's place, I could hear the bass pounding out into the front yard. Obviously his dad was at work, or I doubt he'd have been playing rock music at full volume at almost midnight. I gritted my teeth against the noise and rang the bell. It took four tries before I got an answer; I had almost decided to morph and call him in thought-speech when he finally answered the door.

"Cassie!" he yelled, grinning like a mad man. "Oh, wow, great to shee ya!" He wrapped me into a big, very un-Marco-like hug, and I almost gagged at the smell of liquor radiating from him. "Come in!" he stumbled back into his house, and I followed.

The first thing I did was go to the stereo and turn it down. Way down. Marco collapsed onto the couch and grinned sheepishly at me. "Guesh it _was _a wittle noisy," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "A wittle?" Something about this struck Marco as hilarious, and he laughed until he cried.

I sat down beside him and waited for the gales of laughter to die out. When it did, he gave me an open, naked look that I wasn't used to from Marco. It was like his expression was made out of words, and they said, "I'm sorry for this, but I'm so glad you're here." He reached around to the side and behind his couch and came out with a bottle of vodka. He thrust it at me in a gesture of offering, almost dropping it in the process – I noted that it was halfway gone. "Wannsome?" he slurred.

I took the bottle, but made no effort to open it or drink any. "Thank you," I said, holding it in my lap. I figured that was the safest place for it; Marco looked to be about two shots away from alcohol poisoning. I studied him for a moment, and he couldn't hold my eyes; his gazed dropped into his lap. "Marco, are you okay? What's wrong?" I asked as gently as I could.

He started laughing again, but this wasn't the same; it was sad laughter that tried to break my heart. "Whass wrong?" he gulped. "What have you got? Mom's dead. I'm dead too, I juss won't admit it to myself." His eyes came from his lap to mine again. He said earnestly, "We are all dead, Casshie. It doesn't matter. None of it _matters_."

"You only feel like that because you've had a little too much to drink," I said as non-judgmentally as I could manage. It wasn't hard; I _didn't _think any less of him for getting drunk. As a matter of fact, it seemed almost like the most logical thing for him to do, even to me. His eyes dropped again, and I added, "I'm not here to lecture you, though. I'm not here to tell you we need you. I'm just _here_."

It scared me a little when he started crying, even though I sort of expected it. He tried to talk through the sobs, but I couldn't make anything out. It didn't matter what he was saying, anyway. The only thing that mattered was that he wasn't letting it fester inside of him anymore. He was letting it out. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled him close, and he hugged back with all of the desperation of a drowning man grabbing a rescue swimmer.

It took a long time for him to finally wind down. It seemed that the alcohol and crying spell had completely drained him – he started falling asleep, right there sitting up and leaning on me. I wanted to let him, but I also didn't want him to wake up with a hangover. "Marco?"

"Huh?" he sounded confused.

"Do you think you could morph?"

"Morph? Morph what?"

"Doesn't matter. Anything."

I guess he wasn't as far gone as I thought, because he chuckled. "I geddit. You want me to morph so I won' be drung anymore. I _like _the room spinning. Wee."

"You don't have to if you don't want to, but you're probably going to feel terrible tomorrow if you don't."

"I'll morph away from the hangover. Not this. I worked hard to ged this drung."

"Okay." I just sat there with him, listening to his breathing get longer and heavier. Before he fell asleep, a question occurred to me. "Is that your dad's liquor?" I asked. The last thing we needed was for Marco to get grounded for dipping into his dad's stash.

"No. Mine," he breathed.

I wanted to leave him alone and let him sleep, but curiosity got the better of me. "How did you buy it?"

"Morphed my dad. Agwired him while he was sleebin'."

We Animorphs are nothing if not adaptable.


	43. Fire

**Author's Note: **The next few pieces are going to be similar to the little mini-arc with the newspaper – just an outsider's perspective about some of the things the series touched on. I felt like we didn't really get enough of the inner workings of The Sharing, so I just thought I'd explore it a little more. Want to come with me? Oh, and Wylie's an OC…just don't want anybody searching the books for this kid. I just made him up for the piece. Enjoy!

_#43 – Fire_

**Wylie**

Ever love something and hate it at the same time?

High school is like that for me. I like the fact that I get to learn. Maybe I'm weird, but I like learning new things. It's like a snowball effect; I like learning something that allows me to learn other things, and then those other things allow me to learn _more_. I'm interested in the process of it, just as much as the things I'm actually learning about. I kind of want to be a teacher. A teacher at a nice college somewhere, where I can be around people like me. Definitely not a high school teacher, putting up with the jerks I have to put up with now.

That's what sucks about high school – the kids I go with. Most of them don't even know exist, and I'm just fine with that. It's the ones who can't help screwing with me that I can't stand. I don't make a spectacle of myself. I don't raise my hand for every question the teacher asks, and I'm not first in line to pass out papers for them. I'm not a teacher's pet. So why do people feel the need to single me out and make me look bad? Why do they feel the urge to pound on me when nobody's looking? Who knows? I don't.

Even when school's at its worst, I still think I like it a little better than home. My parents are in the middle of a divorce. They're still living under the same roof, but they can't stand each other. My dad constantly makes horrible comments to my mom, things that make _me _feel terrible. When he's home, that is – he's usually out with one of his younger girlfriends. My mom's way of dealing with it is being drunk. Like, twenty-four/seven. I can't tell you how many times I've had to flip her on her stomach when she's passed out, or how many broken dishes I've swept up from her drunken attempts to cook. The little pint-sized bottles of rum she likes litter the house like landmines.

So, yeah, that's why I don't mind school, even though I can't get through a day without my laces tied together or my head getting dunked into the water fountain. Nothing I do seems to make a difference. Kids made fun of me for being fat freshman year, so I knocked off the Fritos and started jogging. When I was finally in shape, it was my glasses they made fun of. I worked harder, cut more lawns, and saved up enough to get contact lenses. When the glasses were gone, they started in on the acne. I was currently using a medicated cream to get rid of the pimples, but it wasn't really with much hope…I knew from experience that once the blemishes were gone, they'd find something else to hate on me for. Anything will do, just don't let Wylie have a moment's peace.

When the final bell on Friday rang, I breathed a sigh of relief. The week was done, and it had been a fairly good one, as far as the constant bullying went. There had been a couple of snide comments, of course…but I was a pro at dealing with people picking on me by this point. I'd eat a couple of snide comments for breakfast and ask for seconds.

I decided to stop off at my locker to drop off my books before the walk home, since I'd already finished my homework for the weekend. That turned out to be a mistake. When I got outside, the busses had already left and the courtyard was empty. The teachers who were supposed to be on monitor duty were gone, too; I guess teachers are like students when that last bell on Friday rings. They just want to get the hell out of there, too.

I spotted them before they spotted me – a couple of first-class jerkwads hanging by the coke machines. I put my head down and walked the opposite way, even though I'd just have to double back around when I hit the street. It would add ten minutes to my walk, but that was a fair price to pay to avoid those two. Woo and Rhett were two of the worst my school had to offer, in terms of bullies. They didn't have an altruistic bone between the two of them. They didn't fight fair, and humiliation wasn't enough for those two. They liked to injure my body as well as my pride.

I got far enough away to where I thought I'd gotten away with another one when I heard shoes on the ground behind me. I turned and felt that familiar ball of fear clench my stomach – both of them were running toward me. They weren't trying to hide their intentions. They were like two idiot cruise missiles locked onto their target, and their goal was the same, too – destruction of the nerd.

Well, hell, if they weren't going to hide their intentions, neither was I. I took off running, matter-of-factly glad I'd emptied my backpack into my locker before walking home. The empty bag lightly _thump-thump-thumped _against my back as I picked up speed. "Get him!" Woo yelled unnecessarily, like Rhett didn't already know why he was running after me.

Jogging had done me a world of good. Woo was in good shape, he was on the swim team, but he was too big to keep pace with me. Rhett was a pack a day smoker at the ripe old age of sixteen, and he fell back quickly. Woo's footfalls were fading as I neared the street, and I risked a look around behind me to see how much ground I'd gained. That turned out to be stupid.

All the relief I'd felt at outrunning Woo and Rhett drained out of me instantly when I felt my right foot slide. I looked down in time to see the ripped-off cover of a binder sliding underneath my foot. _Why didn't anybody pick that shit up? _I thought desperately as I felt my balance go and my legs went out from under me.

As I landed flat on my back on the edge of the school's lawn, all of my breath got knocked out of my chest in one big _whoosh_. I tried to get up right away to run again, but my body just wouldn't cooperate. I didn't have a chance to catch my breath before Woo's big ham of a knee was planted squarely in my stomach, causing the pain in my torso to tighten and localize.

"Why'd you run, Wussy Wylie?" he gasped, pinning my struggling shoulders with his hands. I tried to tell him I couldn't breathe, to get off of me, but nothing would come out. The edges of my vision blurred and greyed. "Now you know I'm going to have to kick your ass." Like that hadn't been his intention in the first place.

Rhett put his hands on his knees as he finally caught up. "What're you waiting for?" he asked Woo, huffing for the breath I couldn't catch. "Give the bastard what he deserves!"

Encouraged, Woo grinned. I was about to pass out when my nose exploded with pain. Woo drew his fist back, and I distinctly saw two droplets of my own blood drip from his knuckles in slow motion. He positioned his fist to hit me again, and I closed my eyes and prepared myself for unconsciousness.

Suddenly, Woo's knee jerked painfully in my stomach, and then it was gone. All of the pressure was gone. The oxygen flooded my lungs, and my brain woke up a little. I rolled onto my side to see Woo on his back with some new kid on top of him. The guy new to this particular fight – _Joe, _my reviving brain informed me – was going to town on Woo. Woo was bigger, but Joe'd gotten the jump on him. He was straddling Woo and _whaling _on him. Joe's arms were going up and down faster than I thought humanly possible as he dropped bombs on the bully. I heard the rapid, flat smacking sounds Joe's fists made as they found Woo's face and head time and time again. "Gahh!" Woo yelled in surprise and pain. "Rhett, God dammit! Get this lunatic off – ugh – get him off!"

Rhett got him off, but not before Joe landed his most brutal punch of the fight, a straight right hand on Woo's chin that put him on Queer Street. Woo tried to get up after Rhett tackled Joe off of him, but he stumbled and fell back onto his head.

Now Joe was on the defensive; Rhett had him down on his knees in a headlock and was throwing short uppercuts. All of a sudden, my fear and pain turned into a massive ball of rage. I went nuclear. _Enough. _That was the only thought I had as I got up, shed my backpack, and walked over to where Rhett was manhandling Joe.

He was hunched over, holding Joe down, and without thinking about it, I threw my knee into his exposed ribs as hard as I could. I heard all of the air whoosh out of him, and his grip on Joe's neck loosened. Joe immediately pushed him backward and started throwing wild punches. Joe looked like he had it covered, so I stepped back and let him work. Rhett covered up for a minute, then dropped under the sustained punches.

Rhett was down, groaning lightly. Woo was still motionless on the ground, but I had a feeling he'd had enough and was just playing opossum. Joe calmly said, "If either one of you morons comes near this kid again, next time I'll kill you." He said it like he was stating a fact, like he was telling them the sky was blue and the grass is green. "You got that? I'll kill you, next time." He picked up my backpack, handed it to me, and said, "Come on. Where do you live?"

We left the two bullies lying on the lawn and began walking toward my house. Neither one of us said anything – I was still marveling at the fact that I'd just hit somebody. In all of the times I'd been beat on, it had never occurred to me to fight back. Seeing Joe fight them like that had flipped a switch inside of me. His bravery was contagious or something.

Finally, when I realized he wasn't going to be the first one to say anything, I thanked him and asked him why he did it. He studied me for a moment before shrugging. "It's simple, man. I took a vow not to stand by anymore. Most people in life are spectators. I made a promise to right wrongs and get my hands dirty, if necessary. I'm a doer now, not a watcher."

"What do you mean?" I asked. His speech was weird and interesting to me. I mean, I knew Joe by name only. He'd had no skin in the game when Woo and Rhett were beating on me. There was nothing in it for him to have a goose egg on his forehead and the beginning of a black eye (not to mention two enemies at school.) He'd stepped in to help me, a virtual stranger, and all of a sudden it was really important for me to find out why.

He just pointed to a pin on the shoulder strap of his backpack. It was a cartoony, three-pronged flame. "That's Fire," he said. "I wear it to remind me to have one. Things are never going to change without people who have fire inside of them. If I walked by those two idiots beating on you, I'd have been no better than them. The Sharing really changed the way I look at things."

"The Sharing?" I asked, surprised. The Sharing was supposed to be like the Boys and Girls Club, the Boy Scouts, and the Girl Scouts all rolled into one. "The Sharing taught you to fight like that?"

Joe laughed easily. "They didn't teach me how to fight. I don't know how – that was my first one. I did all right, huh?" he grinned, and I felt the first connection of friendship form between us.

"All right? You ruled!" I exalted. "I would have thought you were doing that for years! The look on Woo's face while you were whooping him – man, I'll take that with me to the grave!"

Joe grinned a little more, then got serious all of a sudden. "I don't like violence. In a way, I hate those guys for making me do that. But sometimes you don't have a choice. Sometimes, it's the only thing a person understands. That wouldn't have gone down like that if I'd just walked over and tried to talk it over – we both would have ended up getting pounded. Violence is the only language those two dumbasses speak."

We'd reached my house. I tried not to look regretful as I said, "Well, this is my stop. Thanks for the help, man, I…I appreciate it more than I could tell you. I guess I'll see you around?"

He looked surprised. "I assumed you'd invite me in for a glass of water after the work I just put in."

I wanted to, but the image of my mom, lying drunk and half-naked on my couch flooded my mind. I guess Joe could see it on my face; maybe not that, but the fact there was something I was ashamed of behind my front door. "No sweat, dude. It's not a good time, I gotcha. But hey, why don't we hang out sometime?"

The friendship bond grew stronger, and it was a light, bubbly feeling. "Absolutely! We could go hang at the mall tomorrow, or go to the skate park or something."

Joe smiled and shrugged. "We could," he agreed. "Why not hang out tonight, too, though? Think you can make the seven o'clock Sharing meeting at the Rec Center? My buddy Alan is a junior, he usually drives me. We could swing by and pick you up, if you want to check it out."

Too good to be true didn't even begin to describe the way I felt about that offer. I could get out of my house on a Friday night? Be with people who could potentially be friends? Not have to be scared about being out after dark in a town where everyone seemed to want to pound me? "I definitely do. I'll be out front at six forty-five," I promised.

He stuck out his hand, and I slapped it. He grinned one last time and said, "Make it six thirty, huh? We like to get a shake before the meeting, usually. My treat. Later, Wylie." And my first real friend turned around and walked down my street.

_To Be Continued_


	44. Light

_#43 – Light_

**Wylie**

Joe and his friend, Alan, picked me up right when Joe said they would, at six thirty, sharp. I'd been outside waiting since before six; I'd been worried about them coming early, not seeing me, and leaving me behind. I had worried about Joe changing his mind; he had no problem talking to me when nobody was around, but what if he got home and realized who he'd been offering to hang out with? What if he didn't want to be seen kicking around with a nerdy doormat? It's not like I would even blame him. He saved my ass, and I wouldn't forget that. I'd always be grateful, and I'd always be on the lookout for ways to pay him back. Did I really expect him to be friends with me on top of what he'd already done?

So it wasn't with any great expectations that I took my shower and put on my best clean outfit – a Padres t-shirt that was only a year old and some cargo shorts (the one pair I never did yard work in.) I went into my parent's bathroom, looked in the medicine cabinet, and saw that my dad had left behind a half a bottle of some Aqua Velva. I put on just a little, just enough to cover up the smell of rum and cigarette smoke that was sure to cling to me from being in my house. My mom took her eyes off of the TV long enough to watch me walk back through her bedroom, and for a second I thought she was going to ask me where I was going…but then her gaze turned back to Jerry Springer.

I was pleased and surprised when a nice, late-model SUV stopped in front of my house at six thirty. Joe leaned out of the passenger window, grinning just like he had after the fight. "What's up, my dude?" he called. "Let's go!" I tried not to grin like an idiot as I climbed into the back seat, but I couldn't help it.

Alan, a junior I recognized from school (he was one of the football players who always took the mic and promised the student body a win during pep rallies) turned around in his seat to shake my hand. "Wylie, what's up? I'm Alan." He cocked his head at Joe and grinned. "Joe told me the two of you did a little maintenance work on a couple of bullies this afternoon. Said you saved his ass from the second one after he laid out the first one. Nice work, bro."

"That was all Joe," I said modestly. "He was in beast mode."

Joe laughed and slugged me in the arm. "You should give yourself more credit. I think I heard a rib crack when you hit Rhett."

I laughed along with him. "All right, so maybe I helped a little." Both of them laughed, and Alan pulled away from the house and into the street.

We pulled into the little drive-in on Main Street when we got into town, and Alan told the girl to bring three shakes. "Chocolate for us – what do you like?" he turned to ask me.

Vanilla was my favorite, but I didn't want to do anything to make them think I was different. "I'll take chocolate, too." The girl skated off to get them, and I fingered the money in my pocket nervously. If it was less than three bucks, I was okay, but if it was more I was going to have to start paying with quarters, and I was embarrassed about that. "What do I owe you?"

I was saved from humiliation once again by Joe, who waved nonchalantly at my comment. "It's my turn to buy the shakes, don't even worry about it."

"Thanks, Joe. I've got them next time," I promised. I had two yards to mow over the weekend, so I knew I'd be able to make good on that promise, too. The girl got back with the shakes just then, and Joe paid her and passed them out. Alan seemed to chug half of his in one go, then shot a glance at Joe. I didn't know what it meant, but I didn't miss it. Joe cleared his throat and spoke.

"I guess I'd better go ahead and fill you in now," he said to me, making eye contact. "The Sharing is different things to different people. There are hang-arounds, people who just come to hang out. And that's cool – we welcome everybody. Since tonight is your first night, that's pretty much what you'll be doing – hanging out and meeting everybody. The senior members especially. They always like to get a feel for the new guys and girls, just to see where they're at, why they're there, etcetera."

Alan cut in. "Me and Joe, we're full members. Not everybody gets offered full membership. Only people totally committed to The Sharing get the offer. People who care, people who want to make a change…those are the people who are asked to be a full member."

I had a sinking feeling about where this conversation was going. As the kid picked last for dodgeball just about every time it was played in gym, I was used to the feeling. "And you guys don't think I'm full member material," I said, trying not to sound glum about it.

They surprised me by laughing. "That's not what we're saying at all," Joe said. "If it were up to me, I'd offer to make you a full member _tonight_." I felt a sense of relief when I sensed he was telling the truth. "We're just letting you know why we'll be gone for the second half of the meeting – because we'll be in the full member's meeting, which is separate."

"Have fun tonight," Alan urged. "Talk to people. Ask them about The Sharing. Just like we want to get to know you, you should get to know us. If you start to see what we have and you want to be a part of it – a full member – let people there know that. We want the people who want to be a part of it, you know?"

"Got it," I said. Truthfully, I didn't even know what the hell The Sharing _was_. All I knew was that I definitely wanted to be a part of it. It sounded to me like once I became a full member, there would be people like Joe and Alan getting my back all the time. Just as much, I wanted to get their backs, too. I wanted to be a part of something. I wanted to be in the crew.

We got to the Rec Center a little before seven, and I felt the anxiety I always feel at seeing a group of my peers. About twenty kids my age were milling around the front doors, talking, horseplaying, laughing. I recognized a couple of them as people who used to pick on me, but I did note that it had been a while since any of the ones present had tried to torture me. "You ready?" Joe asked, getting out of the truck without waiting for an answer. I guess he saw that I was nervous, because he threw a friendly arm around my shoulders as we walked up to join the group. "You can chill here. You can be yourself. This is a place where you can be happy, Wylie."

It seemed like he was right. A lot of kids who wouldn't have looked at me at school came up to say hi to me, and they all seemed happy to see me. They all seemed to be glad I was there. Slowly, I began to relax a little. The adults in the crowd seemed to fit in seamlessly with the kids; there wasn't that usual separation that happens between the two age groups. They mingled.

The front doors opened, and Principal Chapman came out. He was smiling, something I suspected was against the rules for him to do at school, based on how rarely I saw it. "Good evening, everybody! Wow, great turnout! Give yourselves a hand!" I almost laughed, but everyone in the crowd started clapping, so I did, too. I felt self-conscious about clapping for something as stupid as showing up for a community program meeting, but I clapped anyway. "We've got a great meeting tonight, so let's get to it!" He turned and went back into the building, and everybody followed him in.

Once everyone was in the lobby, he pointed to the left. "We have pool tables, snacks, and refreshments that way. Everyone new to The Sharing, please go that way to sign in. Jimmy, Jason, Elena? If you would, please go with them and make them welcome!" He started walking down the hallway to the right and said, "Full members, this way, please! We have a lot to discuss tonight, so we're going to get right to it! If there's time, we'll hang out with the prospects after the meeting."

Joe elbowed me in the ribs. "Guess that's me, Wylie. Don't worry about a thing, you're going to have a great time. Tell 'em I sent you." He started walking after Chapman, but turned around to walk backward for a minute so he could throw me a wink and a confident smile. "Have fun, dude!"

I followed a group of about eight other kids down the left hallway and into a large, brightly-lit room. Two pool tables dominated the middle of it, but there were tables along the far wall set up with snacks and drinks – enough for a hundred people. I noticed that the soft drinks were all cans on ice, and that struck me as a little unusual. I knew that people usually put out paper cups and the economy-sized three liter bottles for groups; I'd been to more than one community meeting, not to mention open houses at school. The rows of chips and dip were all name brand. It made me wonder what The Sharing did for money – apparently, they weren't sparing any expense when it came to the new members.

A young woman walked up to me with a clipboard and a blank nametag. She was very pretty, and she gave me a stunning smile which I nervously returned. "I'm Elena," she said. "I'm so glad you came! What's your name?"

"Wylie," I replied. She quickly scribbled it on both her clipboard and the nametag, the latter of which she handed to me. I put it on the front of my shirt.

"Well, Wylie, welcome," she beamed. "I'm going to get everybody signed in. Get yourself something to eat and drink – when I'm done, do you think you and I could talk a little? Just so I can get to know you a little better?"

The heartbreaking smile didn't leave me much choice. "Sure, Elena. Thanks," I tried a smile in return, and hers widened, if that were even possible.

This kid I had second period US History with, Jeff, moseyed over to me as I cracked open a can of Coke. "Wylie, what's up?" he asked, acting like he really didn't want to talk to me but that he didn't have much choice. It sounds weird, but it was actually comforting. It seemed like the first genuine thing that had happened since I'd gotten there; it made it feel like less of a good dream and more like real life. He pointed his can of root beer around the room. "What do you make of all this?" he asked, and I was further relieved to hear that he sounded anxious.

I shrugged. "I don't know, I just got here. It's…friendly," I said. I didn't really know how else to describe it. "Weird" didn't seem like a very polite way to put it, even if it was accurate.

"Yeah. Friendly," he agreed. "You know Sarah? The girl that sits in front of me in History?"

"Everybody knows Sarah," I replied. Sarah was a cheerleader and changed upper-class boyfriends like socks.

"Right," he said. "That's why I'm here. She never talked to me at school, not even once. Then, yesterday, out of nowhere she turns around and asks to borrow a pencil. Then she asks me if I'd be interested in going with her to a meeting." He shrugged helplessly, as if to say, "What am I going to say to her? No?"

"I came with Joe and Alan," I said, just for something to say.

"Alan? From the football team?" I nodded. Jeff's mouth narrowed. "Wylie, I'm not the coolest cat in school. Forgive me, but neither are you. So why are the preps all of a sudden so high up on The Sharing…and why are they all of a sudden inviting people like us?"

Before I got a chance to answer, Elena walked up. She smiled at Jeff. "Hi, Jeff," she said, reading his nametag. "Hope you don't mind – I was going to borrow Wylie for a minute." Jeff muttered something about that being cool and walked off toward the other kids milling around the pool tables. Elena smiled and pointed to the comfy armchairs in the corner. "Shall we?"

We sat and talked for a while, mostly about me. Elena had a ton of questions about me. My home life, school life, who I hung out with, what I did with my time. I was expecting the inevitable "what are your goals in life" questions, but they never came. She didn't seem interested in my future, just the present. Honestly, it was kind of nice.

"What about you?" I asked when it seemed like she was running out of questions. "What do you do?"

She smiled easily. "I'm a junior at UCLA, but I'm taking a year off. I work part time as an office assistant here to pay the rent, but most of my time goes into this right here – The Sharing."

"It does seem pretty great," I admitted, looking around the room where everyone was talking, laughing, getting along. "It _must _be great for you to take a year off of school for it."

"Life's too short. Doing what I can in The Sharing makes me happy. This is only a small part of what we do. We help out the community, but that doesn't make us special. Cleaning up graffiti, picking trash up off of the highway…these things are important, but they're superficial. We're committed to getting in deep and _really_ changing the world, one person at a time."

"Saving troubled teens like me?" I asked, deadpan. She stared at me for a second, then grinned as she realized I was joking with her. She slapped my knee playfully, and my heart jumped. That was the minute when I realized I was falling in love with the older brunette with the heart-shaped face beside me.

"You're not troubled," she said, getting serious. "I've _seen _troubled, and you're not it. You're a smart, capable young man who just needs a direction. Once you find your purpose, you're seriously going to fly, Wylie. I sense that about you."

I didn't really know what to say to that; I wasn't used to open compliments. "I hope so," I said, just to say something.

"So. Helping the community? Finding your way? Getting the confidence that's already inside of you to come out? All of these things sound good to you?" she asked, still serious. "We think of The Sharing as a guiding light. Something to look forward to and walk toward when things get tough. Do you think what we have here at The Sharing might be for you?"

I thought about Joe and Alan. How they seemed to cut through life like a hot knife through butter. I thought about how no beautiful girl had ever looked at me twice before Elena. I thought about how great it would be to get out of my house more often, to do positive things with people who made me feel good instead of putting me down. I thought about having a place to go when my mom was crying and screaming at the moon and my dad was calling her a dumb drunk bitch.

I forced myself to look into her eyes when I said, "Yes, Elena, I do. I want what you have. I want to be a part of The Sharing."

_To Be Continued_

**Author's Note: ** This little mini-arc has one more part to go…whether or not I finish it before moving on or just save it for later depends on you. 111 people read part one in the 24 hours it's been up, and Sweetbriar was the only one to let me know what she thought. If nobody lets me know if they like it or not, I'm just going to table it, move on, and probably just finish it at some other time.


	45. Reality

_#45 – Reality_

**Wylie**

**1**

Life was better for me than it had ever been; I kept expecting to wake up from the dream and find myself back in the real world. Mom was passed out when I got home and Dad was gone, and I slept like a baby and woke up with a smile on my face. I wasn't _too _optimistic - I was a big believer in the motto "if seems too good to be true, it is." I still am – a believer in that, I mean. But even my pessimistic side had to grudgingly admit that it had been a pretty good Friday night.

In the morning, Elena picked me up for a day in the park with the group. She drove us there by the long, roundabout way so we could talk, just the two of us. She was giving off the distinct vibe that she liked me, maybe as more than a friend, but I kept dismissing it. She was gorgeous; she could have had her pick of the guys at The Sharing. There was no way she'd choose me with people like Alan around. Even knowing that, I couldn't help thinking she was maybe interested in me all the same.

We got to the park, which was a whirlwind of activity. Work was first, which I appreciated. I've had to learn the value of hard work and earning what I get, and so far The Sharing had given me a lot without getting anything out of me in return. I was happy to help the others repaint all of the metal trash barrels throughout the park; they had brought them all to one spot before I got there, and I had a great time joking around with the others as we gave them all a nice coat of green to cover up the graffiti. Joe and Alan were there, and they talked and kidded with me like we'd all been friends for years.

After the trash cans were painted, the group went over to the barbecue pit, where some of the older members already had hot dogs, chicken, and burgers on the grill. Even though I'd worked up an appetite, I limited myself to two hot dogs – even though things were going well, I could still hear the fat jokes in the back of my mind. I didn't want to go back to that. I leaned back on a bench, sipping a Sprite, and just kind of soaked in the atmosphere the way a sunbather will soak up UV rays.

I saw Elena walking toward me with an older, good looking guy, and tried not to let the way my stomach dropped show on my face. _This is it, this is the part where she introduces me to her boyfriend and I get to feel like a moron for entertaining the thought that she was into me, _I berated myself. I did my best to smile as they got to where I was sitting.

"Wylie!" Elena smiled. "This is Tom. He's a very senior member, in charge of recruiting. I told him about you, and he wanted to meet you." Tom stuck out his hand and shook with me.

"Elena's been telling me some great things about you, man," he said, swinging to take the seat beside me on the bench. Elena threw a wink at me and went back to the grills, and I felt a little better. "I think she's got a little crush on you, Wylie," Tom grinned easily, and my spirits soared.

"You think?" I asked, blushing furiously.

He just shrugged with a look on his face that said _Girls? Who can tell? _"I _know _she's impressed with how well you've taken to The Sharing. I am, too. Everybody said you busted your butt this morning with the trash cans; usually, newbies like to hang out and goof off. A lot of times, when they realize it's not all fun and games and that we actually do work, they stop showing up." He studied me for a second. "You're not like that, though."

"No. I was glad to help. Makes me feel like I deserve all of this a little more, you know?"

Tom grinned and cuffed the back of my neck lightly; it was a big-brotherly thing, and I liked it. "That's a great attitude…but you _do _deserve it," he said seriously. "Everybody deserves a place where they can feel comfortable and safe. Everybody deserves friends. Are you getting that out of The Sharing?"

I nodded. "This is the best day I can remember having in a long time," I said simply. Tom liked that answer.

"I think you're going to fit in here. I think you're going to fit in just fine." He fixed me with a level stare. "Usually we don't do this this fast, but I want to offer you full membership. It sounds like it's just a title, but it's not. It's taking on a big responsibility; it means making a big change in your life. A _permanent _change. It's a commitment to helping others, whether they want it or not. People don't always know what's best for them…but us full members do, and we're going to give it to them whether they want it or not. Sound like something you can handle?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused. It sounded like he was trying to recruit me, even though I was under the impression I was already in. "What kind of help are you talking about?"

He just grinned cockily. "You'll see. It's something you find out after you're officially a full member. If you want to make that big change in your life, if you're ready to move on from where you are now, we'll have a ceremony to bring you in. We'll do it tomorrow tonight. But, like I said, it's a commitment. It's for life. If you think there's a chance you might want to leave The Sharing later on, you shouldn't take the offer. But if you think what we do here is for you, we'll be happy to have you."

I thought about the full members. Alan and Joe, Elena, and Tom, the charismatic guy sitting next to me. How it could only be a good thing to be a part of what they had. They had all made the commitment Tom was talking about, and they all seemed like good people to look up to. I thought about my home life again, how getting away from that and making connections could only be a good thing. I thought about school, and how different it could be for me if I were to take this offer. I looked at Tom as steadily as I could and said, "I'm ready to make a change. I want to be a full member."

He patted me on the shoulder and smiled proudly. "That's all I needed to hear. You're not gonna regret it, man. We're happy to have you, and we'll make it official tomorrow tonight. For now, though, just go enjoy your day." He looked over to where Elena was throwing a Frisbee with another girl; she saw us looking and waved us over. "I don't think we have a choice, Wylie my man," he said, getting up. "When a girl that pretty beckons you, you go. Tell her the good news," he urged, and I smiled happily.

**2**

I nervously tried again to tie the tie Tom had advised me to wear, but I just couldn't seem to get the knot to look right. _Why did I wait until twenty minutes before he picks me up to try to figure this out? _I thought in a panic. I had almost resigned myself to admitting to Tom I didn't know how to do it and letting him show me when my mom walked into the bathroom quietly.

If you knew my mom, you'd understand how weird that was. She _walked, _not stumbled. Even though it was twenty till six o'clock on a Sunday, I was shocked to see that she wasn't hammered. Without saying anything, she just took the tie in her hands and quickly knotted and adjusted it. She flipped down my collar, made sure the tie was hidden underneath it, and smiled.

"Where you going?" she asked. "Did you fall in with a church group?"

"No," I said, then told her the whole story. I told her about Tom, and Elena, and Joe. I left out the part about the fight, but I told her everything about The Sharing and the meetings on Friday and Saturday. She looked a little concerned.

"I know I haven't been a great mom, lately," she said. "But I still love you, Wylie. This group trying to bring you in…it sounds kind of like a cult. Are you sure they're okay?"

"I'm sure," I said, trying not to get defensive. "They've been good to me, and there's nothing weird about them." I thought about Jeff's reservations at the first meeting when I said that, but I smothered it. "They're a good group, and they want me to be a member. I want to."

She chewed her lip nervously. "Okay, I trust your judgment. It's better than mine. Just…be careful, okay?"

"I will," I said as I heard a horn honk in the driveway. As I was leaving the house, I heard my mom call, "I love you!" I had to work to keep the neutral expression on my face as I walked to the station wagon Tom was driving; it had been a long time since I'd heard either of my parents say that.

Tom smiled as I slid into the passenger's seat. "You look good, man. You ready for this?" I nodded. "Good. Relax, it'll be over before you know it, and then you'll be one of us." He took a left at the end of my street instead of a right.

"Aren't we going to the community center?" I asked.

"No, we're going to our headquarters for this. The community center is fine for some stuff, but we do all of our private business at the HQ. The Induction Ceremony is…private."

The way he said it made me nervous. "You guys aren't going to haze me, are you?" I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. It came out sounded way more serious than I wanted to. I relaxed a little when Tom laughed.

"No, man. We're not about pain and humiliation. We're giving people an easier life, not a harder one." I noticed the buildings were getting seedy outside of the windows. We were heading into a more run-down part of downtown. He pulled up outside of a small building with a sign on the front that said, "The Sharing – Building a Better Life." When I got out, I noticed a huge guy standing outside the door with his arms folded across his chest.

"You have bouncers?" I asked, half-amused and half-concerned.

"He's security, yeah," Tom said. "We thought he would be a good idea after a crackhead came into a meeting last month waving a knife around." He gestured around us. "We're not exactly in the best part of town. This is just a temporary headquarters, though. Don't worry, The Sharing is just getting on its feet. We'll be able to afford better digs in no time."

We walked past the security guard, who nodded gravely at Tom, and into the building. We entered a big room with about thirty people seated around tables, and they all turned as I walked in. I spotted Elena, Joe, and Alan sitting at a table, and they all smiled and started clapping, which brought a round of applause from all of the members there.

Even with the members clapping for me, I noticed some things around the room that made me uncomfortable. Why wasn't there a coffeemaker in the corner, or at least a Coke machine? I didn't see any garbage cans, nowhere to throw away snack and gum wrappers. Not one of the members present had a drink in front of them. It was like a meeting hall for people who didn't require anything or make any trash. Tom waved to everyone, but instead of going to table, he led me down a hallway, toward a closed door at the end.

All of my instincts were screaming at me that this wasn't right. I stopped walking, and Tom stopped a step later and turned back, looking impatient. "What are you doing?" he asked in an annoyed tone of voice.

"Why are we going back here?" I asked.

"We're just going through that door – come on," he said, gesturing impatiently.

"Why are we doing it back here?" I asked, feeling more hinky. "Why not out front? You guys own this building, right? And nobody's going to walk in off the street, not with that guy out front. What gives?"

"Wylie, if you'll just trust me enough to take five more steps and go through that door, you'll understand everything. I'm telling you, it's fine."

A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped. I spun around to see Elena standing there, smiling at me. Instead of making me feel better, I felt even more creeped-out; her smile was meant to be friendly, but there was something predatory about it. "Trust him, Wylie. The Induction Ceremony takes five minutes, and then you can join us for the main meeting out there."

Tom was now showing his true feelings. For some reason, he was nervous and impatient. "You take him, Elena. _He _will be here any minute, and we should have already started when he arrives." He tried to reassure me. "I'm serious, Wylie; it'll be quick and painless. You'll understand everything, you'll be a full member, and then you can join us." He went back into the main room, and I could hear him calling a meeting to order.

Elena took my arm and guided me toward the door. It was the only one, at the end of the hallway, and my choices were clear. I could either go through that door against my better judgment, or I could turn tail and run back the way I came. Back through the meeting hall, where Alan and Joe would see me running like a coward. Back to the way things had been before I had known about The Sharing.

I made the wrong choice. I let Elena take me into the little room at the end of the hall. I saw the steel chair and the weird whirlpool-looking thing beside it, but I was in the room before I could even start to figure out what it was. The door closed behind me, and the man standing beside it asked a one-word question that somehow chilled me to the bone. "Voluntary?"

Elena shrugged, as if to say _We'll see. _"Sit in that chair, Wylie."

I had had all of the weirdness I could take for one day. "No," I said, turning back to the door. The guy slid over to block my way. I heard my voice shaking as I said, "Move. I'm out of here."

"No, you're not," Elena said. There was no attempt at smiling or making my feel comfortable anymore. As she said that, the man reached under his sport coat and produced a handgun. He pointed it at me, and my brain screamed, _This isn't real! This isn't happening! This isn't real!_

It was, though. "Sit!" he commanded, gesturing toward the chair with his pistol. The barrel was pointed dead-center at my chest – it looked big enough to fit a baseball. Looking down that dark gun barrel was like looking into death itself. The words I heard Tom speaking from the other room seemed to amplify the feeling of unreality, the feeling of being caught in a nightmare.

"_Brothers and sisters, the day is here at last. It is time to strike the decisive blow in the invasion of Earth._"

I wanted to follow the guy with the gun's order. I wanted to sit, just so he wouldn't put a bullet into my chest. I was so scared, though, I couldn't make my legs move. The only thing that seemed to work were my vocal cords. I heard myself saying, "What? Elena, what? Why? What?"

"Wylie, I recommend you sit down in that chair. Right now," was her only reply. Her voice was hard and cold. She did not sound like she had a crush on me anymore.

Suddenly, the guy with the gun took a quick step forward and pushed me with his free hand. The gun stayed trained on me, but he pushed hard. My knees were locked up, and the shove sent me flying toward the metal chair. I cracked the top of my head on the edge of it, it brought new meaning to the term 'knocked some sense into me.' All of a sudden, it didn't feel like a bad dream anymore. It felt like a real life-or-death situation that I was going to have to get out of myself. I felt the sticky, warm wetness spreading as blood started to drip into my eyes, but I ignored it as I quickly scanned the room for anything that could help me out of this. Anything small enough to throw and big enough to cause damage was what I was looking for. I needed something to distract the guy with the gun for long enough to close the distance and wrestle with him. One thing I knew for sure was that I was not going to leave this room alive as long as he was holding that gun.

The water fountain/whirlpool thing gurgled senselessly. I heard a new voice speaking to the assembly, even though I couldn't make out what it was saying. Elena spun toward the guy with the gun and hissed, "You moron! How many times have you been told not to damage the hosts?"

He looked back at her and sneered. "It'll be easier with him unconscious, anyway." Unconscious! Sure, I could play that game. Maybe that would get gun-guy to let his guard down. Maybe he'd get close enough for me to snatch it away. I tried to look unconscious, but they weren't paying attention to me, anyway. A call from the other room got all of their attention.

"_Visser! Forgive my interruption, but there are several small insects here!_"

I heard snatches of words after that, but the one thing that I heard clearly was, "_Someone kill this fool for me._"

Two gunshots rang out, and Elena and her friend forgot all about me. They turned and ran toward the sound of the gunfire, leaving the door open behind them. With the door open, I heard the voice scream in an insane, enraged voice, "Kill those insects!" I thought I had taken a harder knock than I'd originally thought, but I just acted. The only way out was straight through the fire corridor. I decided to bolt at full speed and hope nobody was a good enough shot to kill me.

Down the hallway and into the fray. The fray was the only way to describe it. Everyone was going crazy. People were running toward the walls, stomping their feet like they were all in some insane dance competition. Nobody even looked at me as I bolted for the front doors; they were paying too much attention to whatever they were trying to stomp. The guy at the podium urged them on. "Kill them! Kill them!" he screeched over and over again. Insanely, I somehow made it out of that building without being noticed. I ran until I felt like my lungs would burst, and then I ran some more.

_They know who I am. They know where I live. They know who I am. They know where I live. _These two thoughts chased each other in circles around my brain. It didn't even matter where I went; I just wanted to get as far away from those people as I could.

**3**

This all happened two weeks ago. I'm still on the run. I can't tell you where I am. I still don't know what The Sharing is or what they wanted with me, but it's something terrible. It scares me shitless just to think about it. I've tried to tell myself it's just a dream, but it wasn't. I can't pretend away those gunshots, and the way the gunpowder smell hung in the air and burned my nose as I ran through that room full of crazy stomping people.

I'm officially a runaway now. I've had to leave my life behind, such as it was. Disappearing seemed like the only thing to do. I don't know if or when I'll be able to go home, but it's not going to be until after I figure all of this out…if I ever do.

All I know is that the thought of going back to Santa Barbara scares me way worse than being a fifteen year old out on the streets, in the world, by myself.

I don't know what that metal chair and whirlpool were for, and I don't ever want to find out.

**Author's Note: **Look, I'm sorry if my last A/N hurt anyone's feelings. I'm not the type to threaten to hold out on people, and that's not what I was doing. I feel like I've got a legitimate right to ask for feedback when I'm putting this much time into a fanfiction, especially one that's fairly popular, according to the traffic stats. I'm not _assuming _people are reading, I _know _they are. It's in black and white in my traffic graph. So if you can't understand why I'd offer two choices – leave thoughts and suggestions, or don't, and don't be upset when I drop the project and move on – then we're just on two different wavelengths. If you don't understand why I feel like one person leaving a review out of over 100 readers is totally ridiculous, then don't read my stuff. If you feel like it's fair to let me continue to provide material for you and unfair for me to ask for feedback in return, then just don't read it.

That said, thank you to bonewing, W R Tennant, completelyoriginalusername, DarthPhoenixFire, Sweetbriar, Salad Shooter, jesusisabiscuit, Chiroptera Jones, ohmygoodness, and Kimjledford for their continued feedback and support. I really appreciate you guys, and anyone I left out, I'm very sorry and I appreciate your feedback, as well. I hope you enjoyed this piece =)


	46. Ego

_#46 – Ego_

Elphi 113 walked down the corridor toward the Blade Ship's war room. More accurately, he made his human host walk down the corridor. His human host was slow and clunky with no natural defenses, but Elphi 113 wouldn't need to defend himself here on the Blade Ship, the spearhead of the invasion of Earth.

Theoretically, he wouldn't have to defend himself. Visser Three's temper tantrums were legendary.

He had been sent from the Illrash Station, which was the Yeerks' intelligence center, in the Yableeth Sector. The Council of Thirteen had called for him, specifically. Elphi 113 had built a name for himself as the best tracker in the Yeerk Empire. He was the one the Council turned to when they needed an Andalite task force located. He was the one who hunted down rogues, Yeerks who were too squeamish for battle and stole spacecraft to try to escape the eyes of the Empire. It didn't happen often, but it happened.

Elphi 113 was very good at his job. The best.

Now, there were Andalite bandits on Earth, causing trouble for the Visser's invasion. Intelligence suggested there were eight to twelve individuals in the resistance; after looking at the compiled data, Elphi was very sure there were less. Seven, maybe, but more likely six. And he wasn't entirely convinced they were Andalites, either. They obviously had the morphing power, but telemetric and behavioral data from some of their assaults did not fit the profile of Andalite warriors. Elphi would interview witnesses and gain more information before speculating, but the number one rule of tracking was this: _Never make assumptions, even if something seems sure._

As he approached the war room, he checked his chronometer and smiled. He was late for Visser Three's meeting, but that had been a calculated move. By arriving late and suffering no consequences, he would be demonstrating the fact that while he was here, he was in charge, not the Visser. The Council had summoned him to make up for the Visser's shortcomings, and he would be treated with respect while he was there. And when he did what Visser Three had failed to do for nearly a quarter of a cycle in a short period of time, his name would grow into a legend.

Elphi pressed his host's hand into the panel beside the war room door, which swooshed into the floor and ceiling. He strode confidently into the war room, where Visser Three was standing at the head of a long table. Seated around the table were a dozen humans and four Hork-Bajir. Visser Three's inner cabinet – which, given his murderous disposition, was a position no sane Yeerk wanted.

The Visser fixed his stalk eyes on Elphi as he walked toward the Visser, meaning to take his place at the head of the table and take over the session. (So nice of you to join us, Specialist,) Visser Three sneered. (I would think that the Council's pet would at least keep a working chronometer.)

Elphi 113 fixed him with a cold stare. "I am no one's pet, Visser, and you would do well to remember it. I was summoned to do your job, so stand aside and let me do it." Visser Three clenched his hands into fists and his tail tightened so much that it started quivering, but he stood aside and allowed Elphi to take the head of the table. He stood off to the side, by a viewport, and looked as sulky as an Andalite-controller could possibly look. Elphi stopped wasting time with Visser Three and got to work.

"Computer, user Tar-seven-seven-one-four. Acknowledge," Elphi said.

A mechanical voice answered, "Acknowledge, Specialist Elphi 113. Full data access granted. Command?"

"Display topographical map of Sector seven-eight-four, Earth." Above the table, a map of the sector where all of the "Andalite" attacks had taken place appeared.

"Highlight engagement zones with at least one casualty." Red areas appeared in the center of the sector, in a rough circle.

(Do you think we have not done what you're doing?) Visser Three asked acidly. (We are not stupid, Specialist, and -)

"Quiet," Elphi snapped at him, studying the map. He didn't miss the way the sixteen controllers present held their breath, though. Visser Three vibrated with rage, but was silent.

Elphi pointed at the nearest human controller. "Who are you?"

"Breen 7784. Sir," he added uncertainly, flicking a glance at the Visser.

"What battle morphs are the Andalites using most often?"

"Earth animals. We assume they had no battle morphs before their arrival; the only non-Earth animal we have seen is a Kafit Bird."

Elphi wanted to hit him. One of Visser's top lieutenants was an idiot who was making assumptions about things he could not know. "Computer, separate display. Show all confirmed morphs of the Andalite bandits on Earth."

The computer displayed the data he wanted. He studied the animals and their statistics for a moment before making another request. "Computer, zoom on a populated area of Sector seven-eight-four. Population density, medium." The computer complied with that request, too. He watched as humans walked in between buildings and he observed them lounging around in certain areas, relaxed. "These battle morphs are not native to Sector seven-eight-four," he said under his breath.

Visser Three heard him. (Just because you cannot see them on your camera does not mean they are not there,) he said, trying to regain some momentum by talking to Elphi like he was an idiot. (There are wooded areas within the sector, and -)

Elphi pointed to the enlarged map with the humans. "Do these humans look worried about fearsome beasts to you, Visser? Are any of them carrying weapons? No, they're content in their safety." He pressed his human finger to his human chin, considering. He thought he was about three questions away from having his answer…but he didn't want to ask the computer those questions in the presence of Visser Three. He had strict orders from the Council to report his findings to them directly. They would then relay what they thought Visser Three should know to him. Elphi knew it was because they were afraid of him jumping too early and ruining everything. They did not trust him not to foul it up, in other words.

Well, neither did Elphi, based on the incompetence he had seen from him so far. In less than five Earth minutes, Elphi had seen what the Visser could not see in a quarter of a cycle. He knew that the human bandits – which they were, not Andalites - were getting their battle morphs from somewhere. Somewhere local – they were not traveling the planet acquiring these morphs. He wasn't convinced they had the means to do that sort of travel, and the fact that every single known engagement with the group took place within a couple of hundred miles of the epicenter supported that. He knew that once he found their source of battle morphs, he would be several steps closer to finding out who they were and where they lived. Following the Council's orders meant he would have to take those steps from the privacy of his own ship, however.

"Log out Tar-seven-seven-one-four, computer." The computer acknowledged, and all of the data projections disappeared. "The Council will be in touch," Elphi said to Visser Three as he turned to leave.

(That's all?) he asked, surprised. (You come all of this way to tell me nothing? Useless,) he spat. Elphi resisted the urge to turn around and tell him how insanely stupid and arrogant he was, but an incompetent general was the Council's problem, not his. After a few moments with his own ship's computer, and possibly a quick trip to the hot sector for some intelligence-gathering, Elphi was sure he'd have the answer for the Council that the Visser had failed to come up with.

Elphi traveled to the docking bay of the Blade Ship and boarded his own personal stealth cruiser. He waited for authorization to depart, got it, and took his ship out into space. He meant to stop and orbit above Sector seven-eight-four, but his engines suddenly died and his controls became unresponsive before he could get there.

All of Elphi's systems went out except for the communicator. The image of Visser Three's gloating face appeared. (Ah, Specialist, you would think that someone of your _intelligence _would rate a better vessel than one which malfunctions in Earth space.)

Elphi tried to be confident, but he was suddenly aware that he was on the Visser's turf. The Council was not there to protect him. "What do you want?" he asked.

(Tell me what you know about the Andalite bandits, and then I'll re-enable your ship's systems,) he promised.

One thing Elphi had learned in his time spent in Yeerk Intelligence was how to spot a liar. He knew that Visser Three would kill him, and he would throw away the answers he so desperately wanted in order to do it. Elphi tried anyway. "If you kill me, you kill your answers. _And_ the Council will know it was you," he threatened. "You'll be tried and executed."

Visser Three laughed. (Oh, you overestimate your importance, Specialist.) Suddenly the laughter and good humor was gone from the Visser, and was replaced with rage. This time, it wasn't impotent rage. (Tell me to be quiet on my own ship, would you, Specialist? Treat me, Visser Three, like your underling? You think I'm the stupid one? Well, you're the one sitting in a bomb. You're the one the Council is going to lose to an unfortunate incident of Andalite sabotage.)

Elphi's last thought as his ship exploded was, _Sooner or later, the human bandits will kill this maniac._

**A/N – **Thanks again for all of the feedback! After talking to a couple of people, I'm pretty sure I'm going to write a short story about what happens to Wylie after he gets away from The Sharing. It'll be separate from this one-shot piece, so keep an eye out! Thank you again, everyone!


	47. Devotion

_#47 – Devotion_

**Tobias**

I think of myself as a loyal person. I'm loyal to the cause – to fighting the Yeerks. I don't think anybody would question that. I've chosen to live as a hawk in the woods in order to stay in the fight. Sure, I didn't exactly have a great home life before I became a _nothlit_, but I miss it. I miss sleeping in a bed, in a secure (if trashed and run-down) house. I miss not having to worry about where my next meal will come from.

I'm loyal to my friends. I would die for any one of them. I'd die to keep our secret. I'm not bragging, just stating fact. I can see the big picture from my tree in my meadow. I'd die for humans to keep having a fighting chance, even if I'm not exactly one of them, anymore.

Never had my devotion been tested like this, however.

It was Monday morning, a few minutes before dawn. Marco had come to me for help the night before. I'd agreed, but I'd also reserved the right to bail after thinking it over for the night. As much as I wanted to back out when I heard him crashing through the brush into my meadow, I knew I wouldn't. I've done a lot for my friends, and this was just one more thing I could do to help. And even if Marco isn't my favorite person on the planet, he's still a friend. We've bled together. That'll form a bond of friendship, despite how you feel about them personally.

"Tobias?" he called, doing a 360 and searching the meadow for me.

I mentally rolled my eyes and called, (Coming.) He saw me gliding toward him and squirmed a little as I dug my talons into his shoulder. (Hold still,) I commanded, squeezing maybe a _little _harder than was absolutely necessary to acquire him. Marco was my friend, and I would never turn away a friend who needed help…but that didn't mean I had to be happy about it. I finished acquiring and dropped to the ground, where I started the morph.

Marco stared, fascinated, as I grew into a copy of him. He had a nauseated look about him, but he stared all the same. "This is so freaking weird," he muttered, more than once.

"Hey, it's not all peaches and cream for me, either," I said as I finished the morph. I heard the voice coming out of my mouth that had annoyed me on so, so many occasions.

Marco seemed to mentally shake himself out of a trance. "That's good," he said, opening the duffel bag he'd brought. He started handing me items of clothing, which I put on. "Remember – you're me. You're a lovable smart ass. You want to be edgy and cool, but not _too _edgy. Marco the Magnificent doesn't hurt feelings, he just gets laughs. Don't worry if you can't come up with lots of good jokes. I can just tell people I was tired, tomorrow."

I finished dressing and stared at him. "Is that seriously how you see yourself? A lovable smart ass? Not an obnoxious, pretentious dumbass?"

Marco stared back. "Okay, that's what I'm talking about. It was sort of a good joke, but it was hurtful. Don't hurt people's feelings."

I started to tell him I wasn't entirely kidding, but I let it slide. "Class schedule?" I held out my – his – hand, and he gave it to me. I put on his bookbag. "And you're sure the gym bathroom will be empty at 8:30, 10:15, noon, and 1:45?"

"Yep. And the faculty bathroom in the East Wing has a busted lock, so it's there for an emergency demorph."

"You owe me for this," I said evenly as I got ready to head to school for the first time in over a year. I was weirdly excited to go back. I was even more excited to go as someone else. Marco wasn't as popular as he thought he was, but he also seemed to get through the day a lot easier than I always had.

"Tobias, for a day off of school to rest up and recharge my batteries, I'd pay anything." For once, there was no hint of joking in his voice. "Anything you need, just ask, man. I appreciate this more than you'll ever know."

Coming from Marco, that was really something. It made me feel like doing this for him was worth it. Not that he needed to know that. "When I ask you to go osprey and catch me a couple of trout for _my _day off, I don't want to hear any complaining."

He grinned. "Whatever you say, man." He yawned. "I'm going back to bed." He starting stomping back through the woods the way he'd come. "I owe you, dude!" he called over his shoulder.

_You certainly do, _I thought, and began the walk to the school on legs much, much shorter than I was used to.


	48. Not Enough

**A/N – **I hate giving Marco, Cassie, and Tobias last names, since they never told us what they were in canon, but sometimes there's just no way of getting around it. For the sake of the piece, Cassie's surname is Jacobs – please don't hold it against me!

_#48 – Not Enough_

The man seated on the loveseat across from Michelle and Walter smiled indulgently at the aging couple. His smile said, '_Oh, you people are ignorant. You don't understand. But you will._' It was a look both Michelle and Walter knew well; they were both educated people, highly regarded by the community all their lives, and even more so after the secret of their daughter's involvement in the Animorphs came to light. They also came from lower, working class families – both of them the children of poor farmers. Walter had seen this smile on the faces of investors ready to pull funds from his Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. Michelle had seen it on the faces of branch managers getting ready to explain why she did not qualify for a loan when she knew otherwise.

The bespectacled, slender man on their couch punched numbers on his PDA so quickly his fingers were a blur. "Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, I won't waste your time. I don't want this to become a squabble about money, and it doesn't need to be. When I say that the Republic of California will pay you any reasonable sum for this property, I mean that. But you must understand that the people would consider _any _sum reasonable. There can be no mistake about that – we are handing you a blank check. How much will it take?"

Walter didn't even bother to look at his wife for confirmation before speaking – he knew she felt the same way as he did. "It isn't for sale, Mr. Greening. It just isn't."

Greening visibly suppressed an eye-roll, and his expression was clearer than words would have been. '_You silly man, _everything _is for sale. The only matter is price._'

Michelle tried to make him understand. "This farm and the home which stands on it will be passed down to our daughter, Mr. Greening. You might try again with her after Walter and I are gone, but I can guarantee you that you'll have the same results with Cassie. She understands the value of something earned and kept in the family."

Greening looked genuinely confused. "Why would your daughter not bequeath this property to the people as a historical landmark? She owns tax-free property in New York, Malibu, Washington D.C., and Wyoming – just outside of Yellowstone Park, if I understand it correctly."

"Her grandmother was born here. In this very room," Walter said quietly, and was a little pleased to see Greening look around and squirm. "Both her grandfather and great-grandfather died in this house. I grew up here. _She _grew up here. Surely you see the sentimental value it holds for her – for us."

Greening tried a different tactic. "You must see how selfish that is! I'm not asking for the land and structures in order to demolish them and put up a strip mall, for God's sake. I'm talking about _preserving _them. Sharing them with the human race. Your barn is quite possibly the most important structure on planet Earth. Do you know how many missions your daughter and her friends planned there? She performed brain surgery to save Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill's _life_ there! They acquired many of their morphs in that very building! You _must _see that something of such significance deserves to be shared with the world, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs!"

"We don't disagree with anything you've said, Mr. Greening," Michelle said. "And we have no problem sharing it with the people. Do you have any idea how many photographers, journalists, tourists, and historians visit that barn?" She gestured to the window, beyond which Greening could see the grass worn to bare earth by thousands of footsteps. "We've never once turned anyone away, as long as they respect our visiting hours."

Greening could feel it slipping away; all of his plans for museums, tours, and fancy historical plaques. He decided to try one more time before he was completely shut down. He spoke in his most official tone of voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, the Republic of California is prepared to offer you five hundred million dollars for the property. Tax-free, of course." He waited for the final figure to sink in, to knock them out. Their expressions never changed. They didn't even flinch at hearing such an astronomical amount of money.

Walter stood and stuck out his hand to shake with Greening, a clear sign that they were done. "No thank you, sir. But please feel free to visit anytime."

Greening shook the hand that was offered, but he felt nothing but shock. "How can you not even consider the offer?"

Walter gave him the smile he'd been on the receiving end of – a smile that said, '_You could never understand._' But to his credit, he tried to explain, anyway. "Because it's not enough, Mr. Greening. There's not a number you could say that would be worth more than the memories and the sense of belonging that we and our daughter have here."

"Five hundred million dollars is not enough," Greening repeated, dumbfounded.

"It's not enough," Michelle confirmed, smiling. Her husband kissed the corner of her grinning mouth, and Greening showed himself the door.


	49. Dark

_#49 – Dark_

Wednesdays are always slow at my bar, and this was no exception. I was glad, too; CNN was running some crazy story about an interstellar battle above Earth. Apparently, we'd been being infiltrated by brain-stealing slugs from space, and we'd somehow figured this out and stopped them. That's the government for you – they don't tell you jack shit until it's already over. Just like Iraq, but with aliens.

I still wasn't convinced that this wasn't some new age _War of the Worlds _style prank…but that didn't really hold water, considering the same story was on all of the major news networks. The bar was empty, but the horn-honking in the street in front of the building was almost enough to drive me insane. I swear I even heard someone firing a gun into the air; whether the bozo was shooting at aliens or just popping off because he was excited, who knows?

The mahogany doors at the front of my place creaked open, and a tired-looking kid made his way inside. He didn't even glance at me, just made a bee-line for my bar. "Uh, bathroom's around the side," I pointed, sure this kid wasn't going to actually try to get a drink from me.

"I'm not here for that," he said, taking a stool. "I want a drink."

"Wish in one hand, shit in the other," I told him. "You ain't old enough to have a driver's license, let alone a drink."

His weary eyes flicked to the TV screen, then to me. His face might have been all of sixteen, but those eyes…I saw those eyes every Saturday from two o'clock to five o'clock, for the Veterans of Foreign Wars Happy Hour my boss thought up. His eyes had the same glassy, not-quite-there look that the Vietnam Vets got when they were telling their war stories. "You don't know who I am?" he asked.

"Besides too young to be sitting there?" I countered, and he smiled.

"Tell you what – I'll turn into a cobra if you'll fill me a glass," he offered, no hint of joking present in his voice.

"Oh," I said, finally getting it and surreptitiously flipping open my cell to call the cops if the kid freaked out on me. "You're crazy, aren't you?"

He laughed bitterly. "Hell yeah I am. You would be, too, if you were me." He said it in a way that didn't _sound _crazy at all. He looked around. "Look, man, there's no one here. I can either morph the cobra now or I can do it later. Your call, but you're not going to get in trouble for slinging me a drink. I can double-damn-guarantee you that."

I made a decision. He was right, there was no one there. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a cop in my bar. "If you stop with the bullshit about turning into a snake and tell me why you need it so bad, I'll pour you one."

He sighed heavily, then laughed. "Man, you're going to be telling people about having me in your bar for years," he said, and gestured at the TV. There was a kid his age (though a lot bigger,) standing in front of about sixty microphones and wincing against flashbulbs. He was speaking, but the volume was muted and the closed captioning was about five minutes behind the program. "See that guy? That's Jake Berenson. That's my best friend."

I was starting to wonder if the kid was crazy, or I was, because I was starting to believe him. "Who is he?" I asked.

"That's the guy that saved Earth," the kid said. I poured a double shot of Bushmills into a highball and set it down in front of him, all without taking my eyes off of the TV. About twenty seconds after he told me the TV-kid's name, the name "Jake Berenson" appeared underneath the shot of the press conference.

"What's your name?" I asked as the kid picked up the glass, rolled it between his palms, and then tossed it back. He coughed and winced, showing his stripes as an inexperienced drinker, and croaked, "Marco. Can I get another one?"

I filled him up without thinking about it and said, "So he saved Earth, huh? What did you do?"

Marco stared into the glass dully and said, "I helped." He took half of it down this time, saving the other half.

"So why are you here instead of up there?" I asked, gesturing to the press conference on my flat screen. I found myself believing him, even though I thought I knew I was being deceived. It was like that suspension of reality thing they talk about in plays and movies – I was allowing myself to be deceived for the sake of entertainment.

Like I said, it was a dead day at the bar.

Marco never took his eyes off of the glass. "Oh, there'll be plenty of time for me to be _there,_" he said. "It's never going to stop. I'm in a dark place right now, and I want to stay here for little while. You don't understand, dude. We've spent the last three years in an undercover, secret war. I've murdered people. I've seen the most horrible things imaginable. I have lied to everybody I've ever known and loved hundreds of times. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore." He tossed back the rest of his drink, and I refilled it before he could ask. "Right now, I just want to get tore up. Just a little. I want to escape. I want to be drunk and tucked away in this little bar for a few hours, where no one knows where I am. Nobody but you, pal."

"Tom," I supplied my name, astounded at myself for believing – actually believing – every word that came out of the kid's mouth, now.

"Tom, then." Marco reached out his hand, and I shook it. He seemed to realize something. "I don't have any money, by the way. But I will," he promised. He sounded both positive of that fact, and completely unimpressed by it. "Keep a tab for me, and I'll swing by in a few days and pay you, plus interest."

"If you are who you say you are – and I believe that you are – this is on me, my boy," I told him earnestly.

He smiled. "Can't let you do that, man. You hooked me up with some sauce before you even knew who I was. In my book, that makes you the president of the fucking world." He looked around again and still saw no one – there was no one _to _see – and said, "I can go morph into an adult, if you really think you'll get in trouble for serving me. I think the police are busy with other things right now, though."

"Yeah, yeah, hell with the cops," I said distractedly. "You came in here talking about turning into a snake, and now you're talking about changing into another person? Are you an alien?"

"Nah. That's called morphing, and it's how we beat the aliens. Me and my friends." He smiled a little sadly, and it faded almost instantly. "One of my friends died yesterday," he said matter-of-factly. "Rachel. She was…" he seemed at a loss for words how to describe her. He sighed sadly, took another shot of whiskey, and said, "She was amazing, man. You wouldn't believe half of the things she's done if I told you."

My eyes wandered to the TV, and I jumped. A blue centaur with extra eyes was standing at the podium next to the Jake guy. "Yah!" I yelled, unable to help myself. It was just so surreal, that official CNN press conference setting…and something out of a Spielberg movie standing beside a high school kid.

"That's just Ax," Marco said mildly.

"Another friend of yours?" I asked, trying to slow my heart rate.

"Yeah," Marco said. He seemed to realize something. "Jake's brother was named Tom, too. He was a controller." I had no idea what a controller was, but I didn't interrupt. "Rachel killed him, just before she died. Rachel was Jake's cousin." Without warning, he slammed the glass down on the bartop hard enough to crack it. "Don't you understand that?" he yelled, but he wasn't even looking at me. "He ordered his cousin to kill his brother and got her killed in the deal!"

"Calm down, Marco," I tried to soothe him, and to my relief, he did relax.

"Sorry. Sorry. Its…just…I don't understand how he's doing it," Marco pointed an accusing finger at the TV. "I'll take over for him. Soon. I know that. But how is he doing it right now, while I'm here?"

"I don't know, bud, but I'd have to say that if what you're telling me is true, you deserve a little "you" time. Have another one, and I'll put you in a cab and send you home in a little while. My dime," I reminded him.

He smiled morosely. "I'll fly home. How many of your customers can say that? Screw the cab, I'll just turn into an osprey and fly home?"

"That's a first," I said, and he laughed.

He looked down at the drink in his hand, and seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing, like a man waking from a dream. He even said it. "What the hell am I doing?"

"Drinking," I told him, all of a sudden feeling guilty for helping him along in his behavior.

"Yeah. Yeah." His eyes wandered to the screen again. "Where is that press conference?" he asked me.

"San Luis Obispo," I told him, remembering what the TV had said a moment before Marco had walked in.

"That's, what, thirty minutes away?"

"With the traffic? An hour."

He smiled. "I'm flying, remember? Don't freak out when I morph, and open the door for me when I'm done. I'll be by with your money soon. Thanks for everything, Tom." He stood up and took a step back from the bar.

And I'll be damned if he didn't start to change.


	50. If

_#50 – If_

**Jake**

It's funny, the things that keep me up at night.

The Yeerks don't, not anymore. Mostly I'm too tired to let them. But I think I've also been conditioned to just accept the bloody battles and the fear of being found out. Ax comments all the time at how adaptable humans are, and I guess it's true. Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed, I replay our encounters with the Yeerks in my head. And sometimes, when my brain is able to wrap itself around the concept of how much power the Yeerks hold and how little myself and my friends have, I feel a twinge of fear…but usually, all I get out of my replays is insight. What I did right, what I did wrong, and how to do better next time.

I think that's mostly why my brain doesn't torment me about the mighty Yeerk Empire's stranglehold on Earth – I know I'm doing all I can, and what'll be will be. Que sera, sera, as the French say. There's peace in knowing you're doing your best, the most anyone could ever expect of you.

That's why I was a little surprised to find out how conflicted I was about some everyday event. Yeah, it's horrible, but it happens all the time. Every day. I guess most people never have to see it firsthand, but I would have thought that it wouldn't even register on my Horrible Shit-o-Meter. As I lay in bed, staring at my dark ceiling, my brain replayed the scene for me in vivid clarity.

_My dad is driving down the interstate. I'm in the passenger seat. The radio is screeching out Tom Petty's 'Free Falling.' My dad is singing along in a low voice, which is good, because he's horribly off-pitch. I'm trying to anticipate the next time Tom is going to snake his hand forward around the headrest and flick my ear from the back seat, but he's doing it at random intervals and I can't get the timing down. I'm frustrated beyond belief, because out of all the things I have to put up with from the Yeerks, one of them flicking my earlobe on a car ride to the optometrist should not be one of those things._

_I forget all about Tom as I'm thrown forward against the seatbelt. My dad has stood on the brake, bringing the car from eighty MPH to about thirty-five in the space of a second. "Oh, no," he says, almost conversationally, and I follow his eyes. I see the beginning of the end for the red car in front of us; its driver has decided to switch lanes, never realizing there's already an eighteen wheeler in the piece of road the red car meant to occupy._

_It's like a slow, gruesome ballet, the way my adrenaline spikes seems to make everything slow down. I see the rear bumper of the red car kiss the front grille of the truck – it doesn't seem like much contact, but at the speeds the vehicles are going, the reaction is instantaneous. Smoke rises from the red car's tires as they begin to slide in a direction they were never meant to go. I see the driver of the truck's left arm snap up and yank at something; a split second later, an insanely loud air horn blows. 'Too late for that,' I remember thinking clearly._

_I was right. The red car was already sliding forward at a forty-five degree angle, and that angle was rapidly growing. It hit the place where physics took control of the situation, and the tires on the right side left the ground. I don't know if Yeerks feel shock, but I have to assume they do, because Tom's made him whisper, "Oh, shit."_

_The car, now sideways but still travelling at a good seventy MPH, began to roll. After its first revolution, I saw broken safety glass pinwheeling away from the already-smashed car. After the second roll over, I clearly saw a paper McDonald's cup fly out through the busted out windshield. Time seemed to right itself again after that, seemed to speed back up to its normal pace, and I was horrified at the brutality of the scene._

WHAM! SCREE! WHAM! SCREE!_ The two sounds alternated as the car smashed and slid down the interstate, leaving debris, glass, and metal in its wake. I could see that gravity was starting to win the battle with momentum, and finally the car stopped flipping and settled for sliding. It was on its roof, the metal guts (what was left of them) of the machine sticking up into the air. The car looked like a turtle that had been disemboweled. As it came to a sliding stop half on the interstate and half in the median, my dad brought our own car to a stop. I belatedly realized we were jouncing up and down a little, and I realized that we must have run over a piece of debris and gotten a flat._

_We came to a bouncing stop about sixty yards behind the wreck. Looking at it, I didn't see how anyone could have survived, but I meant to find out. It wasn't even a decision, it was instinct. I was out of the car and five running steps toward the wreck when I heard my dad scream – not yell, _scream _– "Jake, NO! Gas! STOP!"_

_I've been programmed to obey my father since the day I was born. Even though this was a completely new situation, the hardwired programming took over and I stopped. As I did, I saw and smelled what he was talking about – the car's fuel tank had ruptured and was gushing its contents all over the wreck. Logically, I knew that it was only a matter of time before some of that gas got to a friction-heated piece of steel or a still-firing spark plug, and then it was going to be Game Over._

_I almost went to the car, anyway; I was the closest available person, and maybe I could get the driver out before that inevitable explosion happened. The way the car had accordionized and smushed the doors together made me realize that was a joke; the car had started out as a vehicle. It was now a metal casket with no way in or out._

'_Morph,' an unknown voice whispered inside my own head. 'Your Rhino could have that can opened in two seconds.' Wildly, I actually considered it; my fastest morph had been completed in well under a minute, and I felt I could match that record, here and now. Hell, maybe even beat it. As I began to focus on the image of the Rhinoceros who's DNA was swimming inside of me, another random brain-voice answered the first._

'_Can't. Tom.' That was all it took for me to understand that if I couldn't save the driver as a human, I would have to let them go. I had the _power _to save them, but not the _ability. _I began to cry as the unfairness of the situation hit me. I was aware that I was talking, but I didn't know what I was saying. Later, my dad would tell me I'd been repeating, "Bullshit, this is bullshit." The next thing I knew, an arm was around my shoulder. I looked up and saw my dad through blurry eyes, and he steered my face into his side, not wanting me to see what was happening. I chickened out and let him. A second later, I felt a big hand on my other shoulder and I knew it was Tom. Even though I'm more than aware that Tom was not the one to put his hand there, I took comfort in it anyway. Because he would have if he'd been himself, and that was enough. Then and there, that was enough._

_Because my face was pressed into my dad's armpit, I didn't see the explosion. I felt a wave of heat push at me, and then the pressure was gone. The heat stayed, though, and my dad backed the three of us away as a single unit. I felt his chest hitch up and down a few times, and I realized that my dad was crying, too. _

I don't remember anything after that. I vaguely remember hearing sirens, but I don't remember seeing any emergency response vehicles. I don't remember my dad changing the tire, and I don't remember the ride home. When I came to, I was at my kitchen table, staring at a _Golf Digest. _I guess, when my mind realized I wasn't going to be able to help the situation, it had simply switched off to protect me from it.

Now, lying in bed, I just felt shell-shocked and angry. I know I couldn't have done any differently, but I was still mad. Because the older brother I'd taken comfort from at the scene of the accident was the very being who'd prevented me from morphing and saving a life. I knew there likely had been other controllers on the scene, and Tom's presence had probably actually prevented a catastrophe, but he was easy to blame. His Yeerk was easy to blame, so I blamed him.


	51. Change

_#51 – Change_

**Ax**

(The Council now recognizes Prince Axilimi-Esgarrouth-Isthill of the Dome Ship _Fire Flower._)

Those words, spoken in a bland tone of thought-speech, sent a shiver of pride and anxiety down my spine. I had been a full Prince for almost a full Earth-year, but it was the first time I was addressed as the captain of my first command. The _Fire Flower _was the newest Dome Ship in the Andalite fleet, and the first of the Beta-Four generation. I was proud to command it. I was terrified of messing up.

I stepped forward to the place of honor reserved for speakers to the Council. This was a private session; there were no journalists or spectators present. It was only me and those Andalites who wielded godlike power with a casual grace. Even after my promotion and being given my own command, the Council made me nervous. They probably always would.

(Revered Council members,) I started, being sure to bow my stalk eyes to a respectful height. (I am here to discuss revisions to training protocols in place at the Military Academy.)

Bosejour, one of the more senior council members, interjected. (Is change necessary, Captain Aximili?) he mused. He sounded curious, not implacable, and I took that as an encouraging start. I had expected resistance. (Our training protocols have been in place for generations, and they have served us well.)

(They have indeed served us well,) I agreed. I didn't want to step on anyone's hooves, or "rock the boat," as Marco would have put it. (After my time on Earth, I am in a unique position to see how revised training methods could serve our warriors _better_, however.)

(Let us have an example,) the Military Academy liaison, Wilshur, said. He too sounded only curious.

(Morphing,) I said simply. (Right now, it is regarded as a tool. After my time at Earth, I am forced to view it in a different light. It _is _a tool, and a useful one. But it is a powerful weapon, also, one we have not taken advantage of. Even the former Visser One realized this and used it as such.)

(And how do you recommend we change things at the Academy to make better use of it?) Bosejour, again, sounding even more curious.

(We have never had a reason to regard it as a weapon, because on our planet, we Andalites are the most dangerous creatures. With the discovery of Earth and its vast ecosystem of predators, it would be unwise not to take advantage of them. There are many creatures – dozens, maybe more – on Earth which are more deadly than our own Andalite forms. Many of them are adapted for ecosystems in which Andalites are not effective – water, extreme cold, extreme heat.)

Wilshur drummed his fingers on the podium. (Do not forget that you were…_disadvantaged_…on Earth. You were forced to rely upon your morphing powers because you did not have Andalite technology available. I very much doubt that any creature on Earth is more deadly or effective than a Shredder beam.)

I bowed slightly, which was the Andalite way of conceding a good point. (Very true, sir. But Shredders break. They can be lost. They are limited by the charge. Morphing is as much a part of our soldiers as their own tail blades, and I humbly suggest we take advantage of it. Having a bear or a tiger morph to rely upon will serve two purposes. One, it will give our soldiers a weapon to fall back upon – one that cannot be taken away or broken, like a Shredder. Two, it will instill confidence. A soldier who knows he will never be defenseless even if his tail blade is cut off is bound to be more effective in battle.)

Harlan, the Head Councilor, surprised me. (Prince Aximili makes a fair point. I move the Council allow him to draft changes to training protocol at the Academy pertaining to the use of the morphing technology. We, the Council, will review Prince Aximili's proposed revisions at such time they are finished, and will vote upon implementation. Do I hear a second to the motion?)

All six of the other Councilors droned, (I so vote yes.)

(It is decided,) Harlan declared officially. (Prince Aximili, your orders are as follows: write a proposal detailing specific points of revision to the current training protocols involving the morphing technology. Be specific and thorough. Also, make preliminary contact with our embassy on Earth. In expectation of your revised training's approval, I want to start the process of obtaining DNA samples of several Earth specimens for use as offensive weapons.) He considered. (Is it your opinion that the humans will cooperate with us and share their fauna?)

I thought of the weight Prince Jake had with the current human government, and could not resist smiling with my stalk eyes a little. Prince Jake was a good person to have as a friend, in terms of wanting favors from the humans. (I believe the humans will be happy to make a gesture of goodwill in this matter, Head Councilor.)

Harlan nodded. (All is well, then. The Council looks forward to working with you on this matter in the future. Thank you as always for your insight and continued service to the benefit of our people. You are dismissed, Captain.)

I held my tail just a little bit higher than usual for the rest of that day.


	52. Priority

_#52 - Priority_

**Jake**

The shadow fell across the TV in the living room and made me jump. I turned to see my dad standing in between the lamp and the TV, yawning. He squinted at the clock on top of the entertainment center and said, "Getting pretty late, buddy. Everybody else is already in bed. Did you finish your homework?"

"Yeah," I lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. The show on the Military Channel I was watching _was _a lot like homework. I was taking notes and everything, only inside my head. The only difference between this and my unfinished Algebra upstairs was that this could save my life.

Instead of grunting a good night and going up to bed, my dad plopped on the couch. "Why are you so interested in this stuff all of a sudden?" he asked idly. He was only wondering out loud, but I felt the livewires that lived in my conscious start to buzz. _Careful, Jake, _they seemed to vibrate. _He's not suspicious of anything yet, but he could get there if you give the wrong answer._

"I have a project to do on modern warfare," I lied easily. I felt a pang of sadness as I realized how easy the lies came these days, but I smothered it impatiently. "It's not due for a couple of months, but I'm just trying to soak up all I can, you know?"

I was already preparing my answer for the next question: "What class?" or "How much of your grade?" My answer had satisfied my dad, though. "Glad the cable package I bought isn't being wasted on MTV2 and Showtime." He quieted down and watched the program I was studying, and I began mentally taking notes again.

_When faced with a numerically superior force, American soldiers rely on their equipment and training. _The picture showed a soldier not much older than me rigging grenade traps with pieces of his bootlace. _Innovation on the battlefield is instrumental toward evening the odds._ I tabbed that piece of information and filed it in the portion of my brain labeled "Tactics."

_The first wave of an enemy invasion is the most important part. The first soldiers in a hostile environment are charged with a holding action – gaining a foothold and holding whatever ground they're able to gain until reinforcements can be committed. A crucial aspect of repelling any invasion is not allowing enemy soldiers to gain their foothold. If that cannot be prevented, further progress must be stopped. Causing heavy casualties in the first stage of an invasion is the most effective way to prevent the enemy incursion from advancing._

Well, the Yeerks already had their foothold, but we were doing exactly what the narrator on the show said – we were causing as much trouble as we could. We were trying to keep them busy here, in one place, until our reinforcements could arrive.

My dad broke me out of my trance by yawning loudly. "I don't know how you can sit through this, project or no project," he commented, getting off the couch and stretching. "Keep it up, though. And try to be in bed by one, huh? It's a school night."

I said I would, then turned my attention back to the show. My priority was being the tactician that I was expected to be. Bed would have to wait.


	53. Legend

_#53 – Legend_

**Rachel**

Even though I'm actively involved in an underground resistance fighting brain-snatching slugs, sometimes it's the everyday stuff that blows me away.

It was a Saturday morning, and my mom insisted on dragging Sara, Jordan and I out to a picnic in the park her law firm was putting on. It was a big deal that we all go as a family, because she was trying to make partner and I guess she had to show off the fact that she had a nice family to go along with her lawyerly bloodhound personality. Whatever.

Anyway, I was sitting on a picnic table off to the side of the main gathering, watching Jordan teach Sara to swing upside down by her legs on the monkey bars. It kind of made me smile, because way back when – in my other life, before the Yeerks – I'd been the one to teach Jordan. I was kind of lost in that memory when I felt a timid tap on my shoulder.

I turned around and saw a boy about my age. He was dark-skinned, darker than Marco. His hair was so black it appeared to be some weird shade of blue in the sunlight. His eyes were big and so brown they were almost black. He was looking at me solemnly, and that look was enough to tell me this wasn't some dude coming to hit on me. Still, the way he was looking at me sort of annoyed me. Like he knew something I didn't, or something. "Yeah? You gonna talk?" I said edgily.

He hesitated and looked over his shoulder. I noticed an ancient woman sitting on a blanket, staring at him – us – intently. When the boy turned to look, she held his gaze with her eyes and nodded; a single, curt gesture that was very clearly a command. The kid sighed and said, "Mind if I sit down?"

The fact that someone had made him come over to where I was hiding out actually made me warm up to him a little. I'm no stranger to being forced into stuff – the fact that I was in the park to begin with proved that. "All right," I said, trying to sound kind and managing to sound indifferent.

He sat beside me without even looking at me and sighed again. "I'm Yiko."

I bit my tongue at the last second to avoid asking what kind of weird name that was. "Rachel," I said instead, and he listlessly shook my hand. He wouldn't meet my eyes. His attitude, like he really didn't want to be sitting there, was a mystery, and I felt myself being drawn in. Who doesn't like a good mystery? Especially one that breaks up the monotony of a bunch of lawyers in the park?

"So, what's up?" I asked when he didn't say anything. "That lady make you come over here?" I tossed my head in the direction of the Oldest Woman Alive.

"That's my great grandmother. And yeah, she did." He put his hands between his knees and stared everywhere but at me.

"…sooo?" I prompted. "What does she want with me? She looking to hook you up with a girlfriend or something?" That got the first real reaction out of him – he barked a short laugh. Not a mean laugh, just more like a, "yeah, right" laugh.

"She's traditional Shoshone. If I had a white girlfriend, she'd have a stroke." He glanced up at me sharply, his eyes full of regret. "Not that I have anything against white girls," he said quickly. "I don't. I think you're really, really pretty. Well, I mean, you…you know…"

I laughed easily. "Don't worry, man, I know what you mean. You might get with a white girl, but you sure wouldn't tell great granny about it."

He looked relieved and grateful. "Yeah, that's about the size of it. Sorry."

I shrugged. "Some people – old people especially – can't stop seeing color."

He looked at me curiously. "Great Grandmother was only a kid, but she remembers being taken off of her land and crammed onto a way-too-small reservation. I kind of see why she's the way she is about white people, you know?"

I nodded. "Probably the same reason World War Two vets don't entirely trust Germans or Japanese, even though the war's been over for fifty years." He nodded back and seemed pleased that I got it and that I wasn't offended. "So anyway, what does she want with me?"

His look of discomfort returned full force; matter of fact, he looked downright embarrassed. "Don't laugh, okay? Grandmother is awfully superstitious, and she thinks she…sees something about you. I don't really get it, but she asked me to come over here and tell you one of our stories."

"Okay," I said cautiously. Yiko was still looking really uncomfortable, so I said, "I like stories. And it's gotta be better than the ones my mom and her friends are telling. Just make your Gran happy and tell it to me. I won't laugh."

He looked at me again, and this time there was gratitude mixed in with his discomfort. "Okay. I'll give you the abridged version – no need to drag this out. She wanted me to tell you about the girl who married the bear."

I tried not to let the reaction show on my face, something I was getting good at, but I felt like he'd pinched me. I started thinking about all the ways this could be a set-up, but then the logical part of my mind rejected it. If the Yeerks knew I was the person using the grizzly bear as a battle morph, surely they'd do more about it than send some Native American kid to tell me a story, right?

I guess I did a good job of keeping a straight face, because Yiko cleared his throat. "Long ago, when the Shoshone were just beginning to move south, they had a great chief. The Shoshone have had many great chiefs, but this one was special – he had only daughters. He cared for them like sons, though, and he never took a second or third wife to try to bear a son."

"His youngest daughter was his favorite. She was the most beautiful young woman any of the tribe had ever seen. She was proud of her beauty, but she also had a warrior spirit. This she was also proud of. She did many dangerous and foolish things to prove her bravery, but she was never punished. Her father loved her too much. But he begged her not to give in to her reckless side, for he knew that one day it would be her downfall."

Yiko paused here to study me, like he was trying to see if the story was meaning anything to me. I kept my face a blank mask, but inside I was feeling a weird sort of vertigo. The girl in the story he was telling could have been talking about me instead of some chief's daughter. The only difference was that I wasn't overly proud of my looks.

Yiko continued. "One day, the chief's daughter went out into the forest to dig roots by herself. The women of the tribe always did this as a group, because the forest was full of many dangerous – and sometimes magical – creatures. The daughter kept a knife inside of her dress and was confident she would never be overwhelmed by any simple creature, magical or otherwise."

"As the daughter collected her roots, she felt someone watching her. She turned to face the stranger, drawing her knife, and saw a man. He wore strange tattoos and a bearskin cloak. The daughter found him attractive and mysterious, but she held the knife out and called, 'Who are you, and why do you watch me from hiding?'"

"The man smiled and stepped into the clearing. He said, 'I am not hiding, I was simply caught off guard by your beauty.' That was all he needed to say; the bearskin told the rest of the tale. Here was a man who was brave enough to kill a bear, and he was impressed by her. She was impressed with him, as well. 'Please, come back to my village and be my bride.'"

"The daughter, who had gone into the forest for roots, emerged from the other side with a husband. She was more impressed when she found out he had magic in his blood; it turned out that he hadn't killed the bear whose skin he wore. He _was _the bear, at least part of the time. When his tribe needed a warrior, he would change into a great bear and charge into battle bravely, and the daughter loved him very much."

"One day, hunters from her original tribe spotted the daughter while she was in the forest with her husband. They called to her and told her that her father missed her greatly, and would declare war when he learned she had been stolen by a man of another tribe. Her husband, who loved her as much as he loved his own people, told her that he could not abide by this. She would return to her tribe, and he would sacrifice himself to take the blame and prevent war."

"He changed into his bear-form and charged the hunters. He shouted at them, 'I am the one who has stolen your woman. Take her back if you can!' The hunters shot him, and he fell dead at their feet. The daughter was enraged and sadden in equal parts, and she vowed to not let her husband's sacrifice be in vain."

"She returned with the hunters, and she was happy to see her father and sisters, but she would not forget her husband, the bear. She had somehow taken his magic, and she learned she could turn into a bear herself. She taught her tribe to love and respect the real bears in the forest, how to live in peace with them. In return, the bears would let the Shoshone borrow their form to protect themselves from other tribes."

"That is why we Shoshone love and respect the bear, and we remember the sacrifice of the first bear-man known to any of us. The magic has been lost, but the respect for our brother, the bear, remains. And we believe, when we need it the most, the magic will return and the bear will once again protect our tribe."

I was spellbound; Yiko had started his story reluctantly and self-consciously, but he had finished it with all the grace of a master storyteller. I blinked away tears that were threatening to form; his story embodied every bit of unrealized gratitude I had toward my grizzly morph. That bear had saved my life more times than I could count. He smiled, then noticed my facial expression. "Hey, whoa," he said. "I guess Grandmother was right – that story _did _mean something to you, didn't it?"

"Yes," I said simply.

He searched my face. "Can you tell me?"

"No," I said just as simply. I looked over at his Great Grandmother, who had been watching Yiko tell his story passively. Now she made eye contact with me and gave another brisk nod. This one seemed to say, _I know about you. Now you know about me. Don't forget the bear's part in all of this, Rachel._ To Yiko, I said, "She knows that I heard what I needed to, and that's enough."

Now that his part was done, he said, "Okay. I know better than to doubt her, but it's always weird when she does something spooky like this – like making me tell a dumb legend to a stranger and it actually meaning something to them."

"It's not dumb and it's not spooky," I said sharply. I saw that I'd hurt his feelings.

_Lighten up, Rachel, _I told myself. _It was just a story. _I knew it was way more than just a story, but I had to tell myself that in order to return to something resembling normalcy. I physically shook my head to clear it, then smiled at Yiko. "Whether or not it was important, it was a great story. And you did a really good job of telling it."

"Yeah?" he asked, pleased.

"Yeah. Want to go grab a burger and a Coke?"

He started to nod, then shot a glance back at his grandmother. I grinned at him. "I promise you she won't mind. I'm just your average white girl, but _she _doesn't think so." As if to confirm this, she gave Yiko one more nod and gestured toward the pavilion with the food. She nodded again to reinforce her decision – it was every bit as good as a "because I said so – just do it," from my mom. He smiled at me again.

"All right," he said. He didn't talk while we ate, and I didn't either.

I think he sensed that he'd already said everything he needed to say.

**Author's Note: ** Yiko's story is an adaptation of a story told to me by one of my friends, who is a member of the Biloxi tribe. I have no idea if the Shoshone tell a story anything like this…and this one is pretty far from the one told by the Biloxi. Anyway, just wanted to make it clear that this isn't something anybody should take seriously, from a Native American point of view – I just borrowed a little of their culture and made a story of my own out of it. Thanks to my friend Palehorse for the original story and the inspiration for this fic!


	54. Shady

_#54 – Shady_

**Excerpt from Chapter Five – ****The Gorilla Speaks**

A week or so after we rescued Ax from the bottom of the Pacific, he asked me if I would help him get acquainted with human culture. I guess he'd accepted the fact that he was going to be here on Earth for a while, and it marked the beginning of his "get to know the humans" phase.

My idea was to take him on one of those scenic tours they run. You could get on a bus for a couple of bucks and they'd drive you around, with some guy on a microphone telling you what was what. I was still living in the bad part of town, and we had to cross a couple of gang neighborhoods to get to where the tour started. It wasn't any big deal to me – I knew how to navigate those neighborhoods. Head down, fast walk, try not to look like you have anything of value.

Ax did not know how to act in a gang neighborhood. We had to pass fairly close to four guys in chinos and wifebeaters standing on a corner, and of course they yelled at us. That's what gangsters do – they're basically school bullies who've graduated to drug dealing and armed robbery…but at heart, they're all just bullies.

"Hey!" one of them yelled at us. "Hey, come here!"

I kept my head down and walked a little faster. I didn't think anything of it. Usually if you just went on about your business, guys like that didn't care enough to bother you. Ax didn't know that; I guess it was my fault for not telling him. It took me a minute, but I realized that Ax had stopped and was staring at the guys across the street.

"Ax, come on!" I hissed, getting that cold feeling in my stomach I get when things are about to go terribly wrong.

"Those men are hailing us," Ax said. "Uss-suh. We should find out why. Wai. Wai-yuh."

"No!" I hissed, trying to convey my urgency without speaking loud enough for the gangsters to hear us. "Let's go, now!"

The guys were all paying attention, now. They probably yelled at everyone who walked by, and here was someone dumb enough to stop. The one who was obviously in charged glanced around at his homies with an excited look on his face and yelled at Ax again. "Come over here, man! We want to talk to you!"

To my neverending dismay, Ax said, "Okay. Kay-yuh." He actually got three steps into the street before I grabbed his arm and began bodily hauling him away.

"It is rude to not return a greeting," Ax told me, sounding scandalized, and I almost laughed out loud. I _would _have laughed, but that's when I saw the guys coming our way. They weren't going to wait for Ax; he'd gotten their attention, and now he had a bullseye painted on him. Me, too.

I considered running, but I would have had to leave Ax behind. He wasn't comfortable enough in his human morph to pull that off, yet. _This is bad, this is really bad, _I kept repeating to myself.

The leader got across the street with his thugs right behind him and smiled. His mouth twinkled with gold, and Ax actually said, "Ooh!" in awe. _This is gonna be bad, really bad._

"Why you in such a hurry, holmes?" the guy asked me. "Your friend wants to talk. Don't you?"

"I will talk," Ax said obediently. "Talk-uh."

"Yeah, see? He'll talk." The guy looked around, checking for cops, I guess. "And I want to talk about how much money you two have in your pockets. Can we talk about that?"

_It's bad, really bad. _I decided the tour was off, anyway. Ax wasn't ready to be around people yet; I should have known that. "Yeah," I said. I was trying hard not to show that I was afraid. "We can talk about that." I reached into my pocket and handed the guy the five dollar bill. "That's all I have."

Luckily, that seemed to satisfy the dude. He smiled again and pocketed it. "Good move," he told me. Luckily, he didn't seem to be in the mood to pound some kids who'd given up their money willingly. He turned to Ax and said, "Now you. Let me have what's in your pockets and you can go."

"He doesn't have any money," I said. "Ax, turn out your pockets so he can see." When Ax just looked at me quizzically, I reached around him and pulled his pockets inside out. "Sorry for stepping on your block," I told the guy, hoping it would be enough to get out of there.

Apparently, five bucks and me acknowledging he was the boss was good enough. "All right, little hero. You and your boy can bounce."

Unfortunately, that wasn't good enough for Ax.

"What do we get in return, human?" he asked the guy's receding back. All four of them turned quickly. Ax added, "Huh-yoo-man," to their stunned faces.

"What?" the leader and I asked at the same time. We both sounded incredulous. I felt like I was in a bad dream I couldn't wake up from.

"I said – say-yed – what do we get in return? My friend has given you currency. En-cee. You must give us something in return. That is the way the barter system operates. Pie-rates."

The guy was confused by Ax's halting way of speaking, but he got the gist of it. "How about you get out of here with all of your skin and teeth? _That's_ what you get in return."

"That's just what we're gonna do," I said, grabbing Ax again and pulling as hard as I could. He didn't sense the danger. I don't know how, but he just didn't. He shook my tugging arm off, and I seriously considered leaving him there.

"You have taken our money. You would take our teeth and skin, too? Skintoo?" He turned to me, looking like the space cadet he was, and asked, "What subculture are these humans from that they would take our body parts?"

I gave up trying to deal with Ax and appealed to the gangsters directly. "He's sick, man. Sick in the head. I'm trying to take him back to the hospital," I lied wildly, hoping they wouldn't want to mix in with a crazy dude.

The gangster didn't know what was going on…and when you confuse a guy like that, his default mode is aggression. He pulled up his shirt to reveal the handle of a pistol stuck in his wasteband. "Even _locos _understand this, fool."

Now Ax got it. Alien or not, he knew a gun when he saw one. Unbelievably, he told the gangster, "I do not believe you are authorized to use that weapon."

The guy took it as a threat. "_Ese_, if I was you, I would go. Right now, before I bust your fucking head with this unauthorized weapon."

It was out of control. Now a gun was in the mix. Ax was going to get us both killed. Not by Yeerks, but by everyday California street hoods. I'm not exactly proud of what I did, but I couldn't think of anything else to do. I hauled off and punched Ax as hard as I could, right in the eye.

Ax lost his balance and fell heavily on his butt, clutching his injured eye. I shook out my hand; I'd never punched someone before, but it felt like I'd slugged the side of a refrigerator. "You struck me!" Ax cried out. "Why would you strike me, Marco?"

I pushed him onto his back and got on top of him like I was about to wail on him. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled his face close to mine. "The lesson is over. You are going to obey every word I say without asking a single question, do you understand me?"

Thank the Lord, he studied me for a second and said, "Yes. Yes-suh, I understand."

The gangsters actually made way for us as I hauled Ax to his feet and began leading him back toward my house. "Let's go. Walk," I told him, and he did. The only thing Hoodlum #1 said after I popped Ax was, "Hey, yo, you _both _are fuckin' _loco. _Stay away from here!" He waited until we were about thirty feet away to call it to our backs.

Later, when we were safe, I explained the situation to Ax. He listened without interrupting and told me he understood when I was done explaining. I told him I was sorry for hitting him, and he forgave me…but as he was leaving to go back to the forest, he made a comment I found hilarious, for some reason.

"I believe the next time I wish to learn about human culture, I will ask Prince Jake-kuh." He actually pouted. "I do not believe Prince Jake will strike me."

He turned and walked away, and that was Ax's first real lesson about being human.


	55. Cloudy

_#55 – Cloudy_

**Ax**

I have had many epiphanies as a result of my time on Earth, but never one as strong or as frightening as the one which struck me after the departure of Estrid and the _Ralek River._

The night after they left me, I ran through the alien forest near my scoop, under Earth's single moon. Cassie had picked up on my pain at being voluntarily left behind and had comforted me, but the others were unaware. I wanted it that way. I allowed myself to consider the events that had led to my decision as I ran.

Estrid, a typical Andalite civilian in most rights, had developed a _Prion _virus to annihilate the Yeerks (and possibly – probably – the humans.) I did not hold it against her; had one of my people not done the same exact thing during the Hork-Bajir campaign? I doubly did not hold it against her, because the humans were unknown to her. She did not know them, so she did not care about them. She saw them as an inferior species, acceptable losses to end the Yeerk threat.

Was she right? I could not believe that, not after all I had been through with my human friends. Humans and Andalites are similar in many ways, but they are also different in one very, very crucial area. Almost everything the humans do, their motivation behind everything, is wrapped in emotion. They are by far the most emotionally-driven species in the galaxy. That we Andalites know of, of course.

Andalites have emotions. We are not monsters. It's just that we don't give in to our emotions as often as the humans. I believe this is because we don't feel our emotions as deeply as humans feel theirs. Andalites have all of the same feelings as the humans – love, hate, pride, passion, sympathy, empathy, joy, sorrow. We feel these every day. But unlike humans, we almost always allow logic to override them. They are a part of us, but they do not own us. Andalite emotions are passengers, not the pilot. Andalite emotions are cloudy, compared to the sunburst of human emotion.

The humans are the exact opposite. They understand logic, and they implement it much of the time. When they do, their logical courses of action rival my own people's. But they have a tendency to regress; whenever something happens that makes them angry, sad, or afraid, they almost invariably give in to it. Their actions cease to be based in logic and emotions rule. This is a frightening, unpredictable aspect of the human race. The one saving grace is that humans tend to assert the good emotions – peace, prosperity, and goodwill seem to be the goals, most of the time. There are exceptions. Humans don't seem to understand that just like anything else about them, their emotional and moral compass is susceptible to disease…and there is nothing more unpredictable and frightening than a human who passionately believes they are right when they are wrong.

During the _Ralek River's _stint on Earth, I realized that I had made a lot of emotional decisions. _Human _decisions. The most frightening part of this realization was that I didn't regret it. I knew I had allowed emotion to overrule logic, and I accepted it. I liked it. I was _proud _of it.

That train of thought led me to this one, my most startling revelation yet: the longer I stayed among humans, the more like them I became. It was a slow change, a mutation of emotion over logic. It happened like Estrid's _Prion _virus – it was slow, sneaky, and powerful in its simplicity. The more I saw of the humans' emotional decisions affecting both them and the chain of events positively, the more merit I saw in giving in to it. There is a very persuasive sense of calm that comes from feeling like you have acted in an emotionally-positive way. The feeling was convincing. It was influential in a way that was hard to ignore. I was beginning to understand what the humans meant when they said terms like "good guys" and "heroes." They have a very different definition of these things than we Andalites…and I was beginning to see things in a more human way than Andalite.

I ran faster through the human forest, as if I could run away from the changes that were happening to me. In a way, though…in a way, I knew I would embrace the change. I wanted it, and I liked it.

In a way, it was also as if I were running _toward _it as well as away from it.


	56. New Year

_#56 – New Year_

**Rachel**

New Year's Eve is kind of a big deal to my dad's side of the family. My dad and his brother, Jake's dad, are Jewish, so you know…end of Hanukah and all that. The adults use it as one last excuse to party it up before it's time to buckle down in January, I guess.

I would have skipped it, if I could. Not that I mind going to Jake's. I mean, I see enough of the guy, but we get along pretty well most of the time. I like seeing my Aunt Jean and Uncle Steve, too, but I could see them anytime. They live like ten blocks away. But my dad came into town to go to the party, and ever since he moved to a different state, he likes to spend every minute with my sisters and I when he's in town. I don't mind spending time with my dad, either, don't get me wrong…it's just that "happy family parties" are not happy family parties anymore.

The reason is simple. Tom. Or I guess if I were going to get technical, the reason is the Yeerk that controls Tom. I know that if Jake can live with that…thing…that I should be able to deal with it for a couple of hours at a holiday party. I'm a little more impulsive than Jake, though. Every time I see Tom wearing that big, cocky smile he wore even before he was a controller, I want to reduce it by a couple of incisors with my fist. I want to put my hands around his throat, look deep into his eyes, all the way to the Yeerk, and say, "I know what you are. You're not fooling anybody, you sick, slimy freak! Now get out of my cousin's head!"

Not the best way to act at a New Year's Eve party.

The arrival went pretty much as expected. There was a bunch of _ooh'ing _and _ahh'ing_ from half-drunk adults about how big my sisters and I were getting. My dad did his stupid secret handshake with Jake's dad, the one they invented in the 70s and never thought to update. Or stop doing. I was assaulted with offers of food and drink, and after taking a polite bite and sip of everything, I asked, "So, Aunt Jean, where's Jake?"

She cocked a thumb toward the sliding glass door in the back of the kitchen. "Out by the pool, being anti-social. Make him come in. Marco, too."

Marco? Great. "Okay, Aunt Jean," I said, knowing I'd simply join them and not even recommend going back inside.

The back yard was nice. It was a cool, clear night. Steam rose off of the surface of the heated swimming pool. It was quiet until a familiar, annoying snicker came from the little veranda off to the side of the back patio. I rolled my eyes instinctively and walked toward it.

"Xena!" Marco cried when he saw me coming. He hopped off of his reclining lawn chair and fell to his knees, bowing like a hyperactive Muslim. "Queen of the Warriors! Princess of Pain! I'm not worthy! I'm not woooorthy!"

I ignored his antics, as usual, and sniped the chair he'd been sitting on. I looked over at Jake and said, "Did you _have _to invite him?"

Jake grinned a little half-smile. "I didn't. My dad invited his dad. Marco invited himself."

"Oh, you two know you love having me around," he said, pushing Jake's feet rudely off of the end of his chair and sitting down. "I'm practically family."

"There's a scary thought," I muttered.

"Sprite or Coke?" Jake asked. I said Sprite, and he reached into the little icebox beside his chair and tossed me one.

"I'm assuming you didn't think to put a couple of beers in there," Marco said. Jake gave him a sideways look, and Marco shrugged as if to say, _I wouldn't be me if I didn't ask._

After that it was quiet for a while. The only sounds were some sluggish crickets chirping, the din of the party inside through the glass doors, and the low buzz of the power lines from the street. Surprisingly, Marco said, "This is nice, huh?"

I took a quick self-inventory and swiftly identified the feelings that were missing: pressure and edginess. "You know, it kind of is," I said. I took a sip of my Sprite and leaned back, bathing in the unpressured companionship. For a wonder, Marco was quiet after his one question.

The three of us were sort of lost in the serenity of the moment, so all three of us jumped when a voice came from behind the veranda. "What are you doing?" the voice asked sharply, with a note of bad humor.

"Jeez, Tom! You scared the crap out of me! I got Coke on my shirt," Jake complained, throwing a dirty look toward the big silhouette that was walking our way. "What are you doing, sneaking around in the dark?"

"Just got back from the party at The Sharing," he said. It sounded like he was bragging. "I know its not midnight for another hour, but I got my kiss already, from a little hottie named Bree." He shot a teasing glance at Jake as he reached into Jake's box and took a drink without asking. "Guess when midnight rolls around, you and Marco will just have to take turns with Rachel."

"You're a pig," I told him, disgusted. He laughed like he'd just told the funniest joke in the world, then got serious.

"The Sharing's party is going on until two in the morning. Mom and Dad wouldn't care if you guys went – its supervised. Not _too _well, though. I'll go back if you want to -"

"No, Tom," Jake said, exasperated. "No Sharing. Beat it."

"What are you doing that's so important?" he demanded, building toward anger. "You, Marco, and Rachel are sitting around in the dark in the back yard. What's wrong with a little socializing? It would be good for you, maybe teach you some manners."

I'd had enough. "I can't speak for everybody, but I'd sooner go get an enema before going to play with your stupid little cult buddies," I spat. "It's great that you found a little fad club that makes you feel cool, but we don't need it. Get lost."

Tom gave me a look I couldn't easily fathom. It seemed like anger and respect all rolled up into one. All at once he smiled. "Tell me how you really feel, Rachel," he joked. "I love hearing your opinions on something you have no way to know anything about."

He turned to Marco, and Marco was talking before Tom could. "Barking up the wrong tree, pal," Marco told him. "My time chasing skirt and playing video games is much too valuable to give up."

Tom shook his head sadly, like we were throwing away some great opportunity. "You guys are hopeless. Whatever. I'll forget about this when you come around and decide to come around. You will. You'll see." He said it with complete confidence and walked away toward the house, and something happened. Something snapped inside of me. Wasn't it enough that this slug had stolen my cousin's body? That wasn't enough for him? He had to get his little brother and his friends, too? _No sir, _I thought firmly.

Without knowing I was going to do it, I got up from the chair silently. I strode quickly and quietly to where Tom was walking away from us. I waited until Tom was close enough to the pool, and then I gave him a hard shove in the small of his back. He _oofed_ and flew into the water.

I realized what I'd done in the second he was underwater, and I looked back to Marco and Jake to see how they were reacting. I knew I'd crossed the line, this time. They were staring at the scene with identical, open-mouthed expressions of shock.

Tom broke the surface of the water, sputtering and pissed off. "What was that for?" he demanded. "My wallet was in my pocket, you, you…you _bitch!_"

"It was for being a jerk," I said. "You said we need to learn manners, but it was you that needed to learn a lesson. No means no, dumbass."

Marco and Jake cheered as Tom blushed.


	57. Well

_#57 - Well_

**Marco**

Myself, Jake, and my dad were sitting around our little kitchen table, scarfing pizza. Domino's, thank God. My dad's one attempt to cook homemade pizza had been an unmitigated disaster. I was eating, but I was also waiting for the hook.

My Spidey Sense was on full alert. You see, Jake having dinner with us wasn't unusual; it wasn't exactly normal, but it happened from time to time. But this time, he was here at my father's request. I glanced over at Jake and saw him eating without much gusto – he kept shooting glances at my dad. He knew something was up, too.

So it came as no great shock to either of us when my dad cleared his throat. "Well, I guess you're both wondering why I called this dinner together," he said. Jake shrugged noncommittally and took another bite of pizza, trying to act nonchalant. I followed his lead and shrugged, like I wasn't expecting something that could range from inconvenient to downright terrible.

My dad continued. "I'm going out of town to L.A. tomorrow for a three day conference. All expenses paid."

"…and you wanted to make sure we don't trash the house with a massive rager of a party?" I hopefully guessed.

He grinned. "You won't have the chance." He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and slid it across the table to me. I opened it and pulled out tickets – three of them. There was an action shot of a soccer player sliding after the ball; I read the fine print and realized I was looking at L.A. Galaxy soccer tickets. "I got those as soon as I found out there would be a game while I was in town. Those are premium seats." I just continued to stare at the tickets, feeling my stomach sinking as I realized we were expected to go.

Jake broke the thickening silence. "Mr. P., I appreciate the offer, but I can't. I can't miss school tomorrow." _Or the recon mission the day after, _I thought. I looked at Jake, and I could literally see what he was thinking. _We can probably make do without Marco. This will get his dad off of his back for a while, and that's worth being one man short on a reconnaissance mission._

I didn't like them going on sensitive missions without me. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm the most observant one out of the group. I'm the one who spots things the others miss. _It's bad, but it could be worse, _I thought.

At the same time, I was a little relieved, though. See, my dad had said we were going to be out of town for three days. Unless there was a Yeerk Pool in L.A., that was a pretty strong indicator that he wasn't a Controller. Not for sure – nothing is for sure, these days – but it was a pretty solid sign that he was still free.

My dad's grin came back. "Well, actually, you can, Jake-O. I set this up a few days ago – already talked to your dad, who's already talked to the school for you. You and Marco are both clear to go. You're welcome!" He laughed like he was doing us a huge favor. Which, in a perfect world, he would have been.

I could see Jake scrambling to think up another excuse, but my dad had caught him off guard. If he tried too hard and looked like he was trying to get out of something he _should _have been stoked about, it could cause some serious suspicion. We couldn't afford that, not if there was even the slightest chance my dad was a Controller. I stepped in before he could dig himself a hole. "Yeah, it'll be cool. We can reschedule that baseball game for next week, I'm sure the rest of the team won't mind."

Fortunately, Jake caught my drift and fell in line. He even managed a smile that didn't look _too_ forced. "You're right. The baseball field isn't going anywhere, we can just play the game when we get back. Thanks, Mr. P.!"

My dad grinned happily and took another bite of pizza. We all did. My dad was really excited, and I realized that three days off wouldn't be bad for anybody. Even though he was happy, my dad threw another curveball…but one I'd brought on myself. "So when the hell did you and Jake join a baseball team? Where do you play? Who do you play?"

I steadied myself, dipped my bucket into the Well of Lies, and started slopping them all over my dad.


	58. Relief

_#58 - Relief_

**Rachel**

Everybody's got a different way of blowing off steam.

Some people do yoga five times a week. A lucky few get paid to do what brings them relief, like my mom; she gets her kicks by putting together a case and then slamming someone mercilessly in the courtroom. Some people look forward to the weekly bowling league; some ride four-wheelers on the weekend; some spend their downtime in bars or in crackhouses. The activity doesn't matter. Everybody has something that they do to get themselves off. I guess you could say that everyone has an addiction.

Mine is shopping.

You might think that this whole interstellar invasion would have put my love of shopping into perspective, and maybe it has. Shopping shouldn't be something that both excites me and calms me down all at once. The thrill of finding a good sale probably shouldn't compare to the rush of getting shot at by Dracon fire or dodging an explosion so narrowly that your fur actually singes off. Somehow, though…somehow, it does. Somehow, shopping still puts me in that happy place where I am the Alpha and the Omega.

My dad is cool. He doesn't put some arbitrary limit that I can spend on my credit card, no magic number where enough is enough. I think he knows that shopping within a budget is lame, and it somehow cheapens the experience. I'm careful not to take my spending into the land of ridiculousness, but I could if I wanted to. My dad feels guilty about my sisters and I; he feels like opening his bank account to me somehow levels the field. In a way, it does. I wouldn't need a platinum Visa to know that my dad loves me, but it _is _a nice reminder.

Express. The Limited. Gap. American Eagle. Abercrombie and Fitch. Buckle. These are my hunting grounds. Sales are the prey. Just because I have a basically unrestricted budget doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good sale.

Finding the perfect sale item is hit or miss. Sometimes you find a store that's got all of their jeans 20% off, and that's cool. Fairly satisfactory. But hitting the clearance racks that are shoved in the back of the store is where the real action is.

Take my jaunt through A&F, for instance. They had four big clearance racks in the back. Sorting through each item individually is a pain in the ass, but it pays to be thorough. Halfway through the third rack, in between dozens of XXL blouses nobody but someone with a thyroid problem could wear, I found a gem.

A ladies polo in this year's style and cut. Perfect color, a dark red the color of merlot. After a close inspection, I couldn't find anything wrong with it; no holes, tears, frays, or double stitching. Exactly my size. I had passed a rack of shirts exactly like this one when I walked in, and they were priced at sixty bucks. For some reason I could not fathom, the shirt I was holding was marked down from sixty to thirty. Then, for another reason I could not fathom, it was further reduced to $9.99. She shoots, she scores.

I always saved the most fun of the day for last. There was a little import store by the mall exit I always used, and they always had some awesome trinket or treasure that I just had to have. The best part was that, unlike all of the other corporate stores in the mall, this one was independently owned. The little Asian lady who owned it was always up for a little negotiating.

I played it cool as I spotted what I wanted hanging on the wall; a wooden mask. It was covered with intricate carvings and fringed with what looked to be coconut fuzz, with two slits for the eyes. The mask was neat, but the little sign beside it was what locked me in. It read – _Zulu Battle Mask, worn as armor in tribal battles._

I obeyed my own First Rule of Dickering – I waited to be approached by the saleswoman. Seeming too eager was a great way to set the price high from the start. I saw that the mask had an eighty dollar price tag on it, but I knew from experience that that didn't mean much in this store. I imagined who might have worn a thing like this and what it would look like on my bedroom wall while I waited, and before long the proprietress arrived.

"Ooh, you have good taste," she said admiringly. "That is a very nice piece."

"It's not bad," I allowed, letting a lot of apathy into my voice. This is the Second Rule of Dickering – always act like you don't care if you leave with an item, one way or another. I moved directly on to Rule Three – do your best to devalue the item without completely closing off the seller to you. "It's not authentic, though; it has to be a reproduction." I knew that from the relatively low price; had it been a battle-worn piece, it would be in the hundreds of dollars.

"Oh no, no reproduction," the lady countered, smiling. "Handmade by a Zulu craftsman, direct from Africa. Eighty dollars is a very fair price."

Rule Four – never directly disagree with the seller, but make them back up their claims. "That _is _a fair price," I agreed. "Do you have any paperwork to show that it's made by the Zulu?"

The corners of her mouth twitched downward, and I could see that she'd been hoping that would be a question not asked. _They don't send authentication when you buy it from Taiwan, lady; you know it and I know it, _I thought. Still, real or not, it was a cool piece that I wanted. Couldn't let her see that, though.

"Unfortunately, I haven't gotten it authenticated, yet. But that's good for you! If I had already paid an expert to come in and do it, the price tag would be eight _hundred_, not eighty!"

I took two small steps away from her and the item, as if I'd completely lost interest. "It's neat, but I can't see spending eighty bucks on something with no proof of authenticity. Sorry for taking up your time." I turned and walked toward the door, waiting for it. _One step, two steps, three…here it comes…four…_

"Wait!" the lady called, and I smiled internally. I turned, keeping my face politely disinterested. She had a pained look on her own, like she was about to do something she really didn't want to do. "I would be willing to let it go for sixty-five, if you wanted to take it home."

I pretended to consider it. "Still too much for something I can't be sure about, I'm afraid." I didn't even get turned all the way around to leave again before she offered it for fifty.

I countered with twenty. She acted offended and counter-offered forty. A little more back and forth, and I walked out with it for $27.50.

Life is good.


	59. Divine

_#59 – Divine_

Jake and Rachel stood about 100 yards west of the main campfire in the Valley of the Hork-Bajir. They could see their fellow freedom fighters – Tobias in human form conversing with his long-lost mother, Marco telling jokes to a small crowd of bewildered Hork-Bajir, Cassie in quiet conversation with her parents. They could see them, but Jake had carefully led Rachel out of the range of prying ears.

The only sound was the chirping of random birds as the sun set on what was to be their last night in the Valley. Maybe their last night anywhere. Jake's posture was hunched and unhappy; Rachel stood as she always did – head held high, shoulders square, one hand on a confidently-cocked hip. Rachel had swagger, even when she was standing still.

Jake's unreadable brown eyes searched Rachel's gleaming blue ones as he let his last request sink it; because it_ was _a request, not one of his usual orders. Rachel viewed all of Jake's orders as strong suggestions, anyway. She always had, and she always would.

Slowly but confidently, she began to nod. "I can do that," she said easily.

"You know what I'm asking you to do?" Jake asked carefully. He knew that she did, but for the sake of his own conscious and her respect, he had to make sure.

Her eyes blazed. "I'm not stupid. I know what you're asking. I said I can do it."

Jake didn't like to push Rachel when she was like this, but he felt that he had to. "Then say it. Say out loud what I need from you."

She looked like she might punch him for a moment; the set of her shoulders tensed and she rolled her right hand into a fist. After a short moment, she relaxed and actually smiled a little. "You're asking me to be insane one last time. You're using me as a kamikaze pilot with no plane. I get it, and I know what happens to kamikaze pilots. I know. Has to be done."

"Unless you see another way," Jake added quickly. It was his idea, but it had to be her decision. He had to give her multiple outs.

Rachel thought about it. "No other way," she finally said. "Not with what we've got. The only thing that's kept us alive and free is our power to surprise the Yeerks. They'll never expect it. Tom – the real Tom – probably doesn't believe that you have it in you to send me. To let me go," she quickly amended, knowing how this would play out in the end. She couldn't let Jake live with the guilt of feeling like it wasn't 100% her will to go. If he survived at all; that was not even close to a guarantee. Lots of people were going to die the next day.

Jake nodded…and then hesitated. The war had turned him ruthless, that much was certain. But, like anything else, there are levels of ruthlessness…and Jake didn't know if he could go to the extreme of sending his cousin to kill his brother. A crack appeared in his calm façade, and for a moment the misery of the choice was clear on his face. "What am I thinking?" he wondered out loud. "If this is where we have to go in order to win, maybe we're better off losing. After all we've been through, I don't think I can stand losing you like this, Rachel."

Suddenly, Rachel was the one doing the calming. "You're not guaranteed to lose me. The Yeerks are new at morphing. I've been using my grizzly for three years. There's every chance in the world I can do my job and get out free and clear. Done it a million times," she said breezily. Jake's eyes spoke, and they said, _you know better._

Rachel's grin reappeared. "Even if I _can't _get out, it doesn't matter. That's the price of winning. I'm willing to pay it. Case closed." She closed her eyes and turned her face to the dying sun for maybe the last time. "Do you know what kamikaze means, Jake? In Japanese?" He shook his head no. "It means _divine wind._ I like the thought of a divine wind being the thing that wins the war for us. I like the thought of me being that wind even more." She elbowed him in the ribs playfully, and he smiled sadly, despite himself. "Let me go, Jake. Let me be the wind that brings down the Yeerks."

Jake shed a tear. Rachel pretended to find something back the way of the campfire to look at. "All right," he finally said. "Be the wind."

Rachel smiled a sad smile herself. "That's all I want. End of discussion, the decision is made. Now let's go get a cup of berry coffee and forget about this mess until tomorrow. We'll deal with it then."

And they did.


	60. Trapped

**Author's Note: **This one is rated heavy T for candid discussion of illegal drugs and some profanity. My motto is to know about dope, accept that it's a part of American life…but never, ever do it!

_#60 – Trapped_

The junkie spotted a Latino kid cutting through the park all alone. He checked out the kid's sneakers – Wal-Mart brand. The junkie knew that you could tell almost everything worth knowing about a man (or boy, in this case,) by looking at their shoes…and this pair of sneaks was telling him one thing. He wasn't going to get any cash out of this one. He wasn't going to get any cash…but he was going to ask for it anyway. Because you just never knew.

The junkie felt a welling of shame fill his chest as the kid's dark eyes flicked to him and he immediately started veering off to avoid close contact. Not a good start. The junkie wanted to leave the kid alone. The screaming addiction that lived in his very soul wouldn't allow it. If he could scrounge three more bucks, he could get a bump of horse. Not the good shit, not the China White…but the brown crap they called Panama Paradise? The stuff that was probably more D-Con than heroin? Yeah, he could get a bump of that, and it would keep him from getting sick for a few hours. Hell, might even get him high, if he got lucky and scored a good end of the cut. But he needed the three dollars first.

"Hey kid," the junkie called, loud enough to be certain he was heard, but not so loud as to seem threatening or crazy. "Listen, man, I'm sick. I need to get on a bus to see the doctor, but I need three bucks for a pass. Think you can help me out?"

To his surprise, the kid actually stopped. He gave the junkie a once-over with cool brown eyes, eyes that seemed to see way too much to belong to a boy of maybe fourteen. He stared at him for a length of time that made the addict feel uncomfortable, but he stood fast and tried not to scratch the inside of his arm.

Finally, the kid spoke. "If you're going to see the doctor, I'm Dean Martin. And I can't sing." The junkie grinned ruefully; it wasn't the first time he'd been called out on a panhandling story, and it wouldn't be the last. The kid smiled back, hesitantly, and said, "I've got a dollar fifty. Come clean with me, and it's yours."

Halfway there was better than nothing. "What do you want to know?"

"What are you on?"

"Horse. Heroin," he clarified, feeling both uncomfortable and elated at telling the truth.

"I know what horse is. I live in Marceyville." The junkie knew the government-assisted apartment complex well; his old dealer had slung out of there.

"Marcey's rough," the junkie sympathized. And even though he wanted the money in the kid's pocket – _needed _the money – he made what amounted to a decent decision. He decided he wouldn't take a dime from this kid. He'd make it happen – he always did – but he wouldn't make it happen off of this cool kid's nickel. "Keep your dough, bro. And stay off of the shit. It's no way to live, trust me."

"Maybe. Maybe not," the kid mused. "You're a slave; I'm not telling you anything by saying that. The dope's got you by the short hairs. Am I right or am I right?"

"You're right," the junkie agreed, not the least bit put out by this bold statement. It was true, after all.

"But you're a slave who makes your own decisions. For the most part," he amended. "You decide when to eat. You decide where to sleep. You decide who you ask for money. That's something, isn't it?"

The junkie was a little freaked out. It sounded like the little man was already on something; acid, maybe. Maybe just some really good weed. "I guess it is something, dude. I guess it is. I'm trapped, but I'm free. I feel you. I get it."

The kid shook his head. "No, you don't get it. You don't understand. But that's a good thing. Trust me on that – you don't ever want to know what I'm babbling about." The kid fished in the pocket of his jeans and came out with a bill and some shrapnel. He pushed it into the junkie's hand.

"Hey, no man, I can't," he protested even as he counted it. A dollar eighty-five.

The kid smiled at him. "Enjoy yourself. Try to, anyway. Because even though you got a rusty fishhook in your balls called heroin, you're still making your own decisions. Just don't ever stoop to hurting anybody, okay? Don't ever victimize people. There's enough of that going on already." And without a word of explanation, the kid walked off. The junkie stared at the money in his hand and tried to decide if the kid was high himself, or if he was some kind of genius.

The hell of it was he just couldn't decide.


	61. Nosy

_#61 - Nosy_

"Michele, we need to talk."

Walter was seated at the kitchen table; unusual for five thirty in the afternoon. Normally he would have been making his afternoon rounds, checking post-op status in the clinic and surreptitiously double-checking the charts to make sure Cassie had given the afternoon meds. Not that he didn't trust her. It was just an old habit, and one he felt slightly guilty about…but not guilty enough to stop.

He sat in a beam of afternoon sunshine with a lone scrap of notebook paper in front of him on the table. Even though his tone was fairly serious, Michele had a doctor's point of view on seriousness; if no one was bleeding out and no one was panicking, things were still within control. So she took a moment to enjoy the dust motes dancing around his graying halo of hair before taking a seat at the table next to him.

He slid the sheet of notebook paper in front of her, but before she could even begin to read, he started explaining. "I wasn't snooping. Honest. I would never do that. But Cassie went with me on the feed-buy a couple of weeks ago, and I thought she might have stuck the receipts in her notebook. I found that when I was flipping through, and I just don't know what to make of it."

"Shh," Michele said, and began to read what her daughter had written.

_The wolf was here before people. If we don't kill them off, the wolf will be here after we're gone._

_I believe that._

_The wolf is kind. She is a predator who has been forced to accept a new role as prey. Our prey. But still, the wolf is kind. She lends me her strength. She allows me to fight for us, and understands that while some of my kind would kill her, I will use her power to protect us both._

_I believe that._

_She's perfect. Her speed and endurance are astounding. Her mind is cunning and beautiful. Her instincts are sharp and simple, but also complex. Along with the need to kill is the desire to nurture. Family is important to her. She will kill and die without a moment's hesitation or regret, and that is beautiful too._

_Wolf. Human. Human. Wolf._

_Wolf like me._

Michele got to the end of the piece, re-read it, and leaned back, thoughtful. "What does it mean?" Walter asked anxiously. "I mean, it's weird, right? Should we be worried?"

Michele thought it over before sliding the paper back to her husband. He relaxed tremendously at the fact she had a slight smile on her lips. "Worried? No. It's strange, but it's also beautiful. Surely you see that."

Walter nodded slowly. "I thought so too. But the 'wolf like me' part…do you think she wants to be one? What is that about?"

"I'd say our daughter has done two things here. One, she's learned how to express her love and respect for the animals she cares for. Two, she's able to empathize with a so-called lower life form. I'd say that worrying is the last thing we should do." She broadened her smile. "Now put that back where you found it, Nosy Norman."


	62. Easy

A/N – I want to make it very clear that I am flying ass-first into this ficlet. I have never served in the military, have only a passing knowledge of the conflict I'm writing about, and I'm not even sure if the timeline coincides with Animorphs canon appropriately. That said, I'm going to post it anyway…try to be lenient with me for any errors in this one. Enjoy!

_#62 – Easy_

**The Following Is Property of the United States Army**

**Top Secret Clearance Required**

**Transcription of a recorded audio file found in the personal belongings of the late SSG Dobson**

My name is Staff Sergeant William Dobson. One of the first unofficial lessons you learn in Uncle Sam's Army is simple – if something seems too good to be true, it is. If something seems easy or free, it's neither.

I forgot my lesson, and it ruined countless lives.

That's not part of this story. _That _story, the one about my time as a controller in the military, is available on bookstore shelves. It's called _The Fight For Control_. Go buy a copy.

This story here is more of a…personal confession. It's about how I let my own weakness get me infested. It started innocently enough, the way I imagine most clusterfu…um, messy situations, do.

It was my second week in Kosovo. Me and the rest of my battalion were there in a "peacekeeping capacity." It became clear to me after a short while that that meant we were there to kill one group of psychos before they could kill the other group of psychos.

Whatever. I was in the army. I pointed my boots where I was told, I pointed my rifle where I was told, and I pulled the trigger on who I was told. That's what they paid me for. My motto was to leave the politics to the politicians.

My company had only had our boots on the ground in Kosovo for sixteen days, but we'd already had our first taste of fighting with the locals. We were out on patrol and got word that some bad guys were gearing up to firebomb a hospital. We sniffed 'em out, made contact, and dug in against them. Two of my guys took hits, but all forty-two of their guys took hits. Bad hits. The fatal kind. We wiped them off the map.

The details of that fight aren't really important. I'm forgetting them anyway. But I remember very well what happened to put me in the pocket of an organization called The Sharing.

I was visiting one of my guys who'd been hit in the hospital. Yolo. I forget the kid's real name now, but after that first skirmish, we all called him Yolo. I even remember why – the badass volunteered to draw fire away from the main group by sprinting across fifty yards of open ground by himself. He grinned while he did it, knocking on his own helmet and screaming, "You only live once, mother (edited)!" as he took heavy fire. Even after he took lead in the leg, he was laughing and shooting as he was being hauled to cover.

Most people call that crazy. In our world, we called it badass.

Anyway, the first thing Yolo did when I went to see him was ask if I could get him out of the hospital and put on light duty. Technically, I could do that, but I asked him why. Told him to relax for a couple of weeks, eat some free ice cream, flirt with the nurses. He gave me this look like I was crazy and said, "No way, Sarge. I'll miss the party!"

He went on to tell me that one of the guys in our unit was a member of this group back home called The Sharing. The Sharing knew our unit was in the shi…um, in Kosovo. They put several thousand dollars in that particular member's bank account and told him to throw a bash for the grunts. Back then, I thought they were just doing it as a thank you.

Now I know exactly why they did it.

See, to attend these bashes – because they put on several awesome parties for the troops while we were over there – you had to sign this pledge. It seemed easy enough – all you had to do to get into these parties was promise to attend one of their meetings when you got back home to Cali. Trust me, Kosovo was one boring ass place when people weren't shooting at you. The chance to get away, drink some free hooch, eat good barbecue instead of mess hall chow, even meet some local ladies? Guys would have sold their soul for it, and here all they wanted was an hour of your time when you got back home. Hell, most of the guys probably would have gone to a meeting just to say thanks when they got home, even without the pledge.

The Sharing has been pretty well documented, now that the Yeerks have been kicked off of our planet. I don't need to tell you how they operated. It sucks to talk about, because looking back on it, they fooled me so easily. I'm embarrassed of myself. I'm ashamed. I'm guilty.

I didn't just get myself infested – I could live with that. My guys looked up to me. Even before the slugs took me, I went around praising The Sharing, talking about how great they were for keeping morale up a half a world away, blah blah blah. I got countless troops interested. I don't know how many. Lots.

I _do _have an exact figure on how many guys I was directly responsible for recruiting and infesting. My shrink says I wasn't responsible at all, that it was the slug in my head who did all that evil. Sure, that's true. But I let that evil in. I was more than willing to be used. So the sixty-six guys who were infested because of me…yeah, that's on me as much as the Yeerk who used me.

Forty-three of those guys are now dead. Sixteen of them have been section 8'd. Of those sixteen, nine have committed suicide. One went crazy and beat his girlfriend to death. Four of the sixteen are drug addicts. I don't have a whole lot of hope for the remaining seven.

Sixty-six lives I ruined, all because I wanted to party. Sixty-seven, really, because you have to count the poor girlfriend.

Sixty-seven lives, because I was weak when I should have been strong.

Sixty-seven lives, because I was gullible and stupid.

_*On the recording, the sound of an army-issue .45 caliber pistol being cocked*_

Saying sorry is pointless. Maybe this tape and what I'm about to do will _show_ how sorry I am. Buy my book – all profits go to a charity that helps provide for families of dead soldiers.

It's not enough. But it's all I can do. I love you mom and Allie. Goodbye.

_*On the recording, the sound of a single pistol shot, followed by silence*_


	63. Eyes

_#63 – Eyes_

**Rachel**

The soft _clitter-clatter _of my keyboard being used woke me up. Not enough to open my eyes; I remembered that Tobias had been hanging out with me in my room. I must have fallen asleep, and he must have decided to use my computer while I slept. I didn't mind…I was a big supporter of Tobias doing human activities back then when he'd just gotten his morphing powers back from the Ellimist.

I stayed still with my eyes closed, keeping my breathing steady and regular as the keyboard continued to softly clack. Whatever he was doing, I didn't want to distract him. The thing about pretending to sleep when you're tired is that you really fall back asleep, though. The next time my mind had a conscious thought, my room was silent and empty.

I opened my eyes, which were drawn instinctively to the glowing alarm clock on the nightstand. 5:11. My computer monitor was in sleep mode. Curious, I rolled out of bed and tapped the enter key to wake it up.

Not surprisingly, Tobias had closed whatever program he had been using. I had almost made up my mind to just ask him what he'd been doing when I noticed my Recycle Bin icon. I kept it meticulously clear of files…I didn't even understand the purpose of having a Recycle Bin, but my computer wouldn't let me delete it. If you're going to delete something, it's because you want it gone, not because you want it in other folder on your computer. To me, it seemed like saving the trash bags full of garbage you threw away just in case you might need to dig through them later.

Now there was a file in my Recycle Bin. I opened it and saw that it was an untitled document. I opened the document and read.

_Why do I do it? Why do I suffer the things I suffer in order to fight a fight I don't even want? Why do I kill to eat when I hate violence? Why do I fight when I'd rather love?_

_Now it's because of my friends. Now it's because of the girl I love. But before…it was because of his eyes._

_Huge eyes which saw everything. They were almond-shaped, and to me, that made them look kind. There was an iris and a pupil, just like my own eyes. Even the eyeballs on top of his head were made up of the same parts as my own eyes, and I think that is what made me trust him before he ever spoke._

_At first, the green eyes spoke of alien forests I would never see. They held wonderful secrets that Elfangor would never have time to tell._

_Then, when the Yeerks came and he realized time was even shorter than he'd thought, those eyes grew soft with desperation. As he transferred the morphing power to my friends and I, his eyes begged us to do what he no longer could._

_And when we ran and hid from Visser Three, Elfangor stood firm. Wounded, scared, and alone, he faced his enemy. His eyes betrayed none of what I know he was feeling, though…his eyes blazed with the emerald fire of righteousness. _

_Elfangor was struck down. He is gone. But when I close my eyes, I can see his. And if my friends are what keep me going, Elfangor's eyes are what started it in the first place. _


End file.
